Fickle Dreams, Heavy Nightmares
by Der Drache Dame
Summary: A girl, her friend, and her family move into the giant Opera Populaire with plans of turning it into a liveable abode... but what no one counted on was the Phantom of the Opera. PREQUEL TO The Whispered Word, Lenore!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Erik (I'm sure he's pretty glad for that), and I don't really own anyone ELSE in this story. If I do, it'll only be partially. 'Kay? 'Kay.

Thanks: A big, hearty DANKE goes out to Tammy, who was gracious enough to let me write this story; and, uh… to Tammy again, for proofreading and making sure I got it all right! Yay Tammy!

A/N: This is the prequel to the much-loved story, The Whispered Word, Lenore, and takes place three years before. …Oh gee, I rhymed. Weird.

Anyway, this is the first chapter of Ellen and Irene's story, and I sincerely hope I GOT IT RIGHT. But I guess that's up to you guys, right? Right. So, without further ado, here it is.

Tammy: Here's to you, girl. Darn blackmailer.

* * *

Vanessa shoved her fists in her jeans pockets, her red-haired ponytail waggling against her back as she walked along, her eyes focused more or less on the sidewalk. Her older brother Patrick paused, and when she kept on walking he grabbed her arm. "Slow down there, sis," he said, laughing a little at her expression of surprise.

"Now listen," he said firmly. "I'm going in this store here. You can do anything ya like – just so long as you stay fairly close and keep your cell on." Vanessa wordlessly pulled out her silver phone and turned on the power, flashing him the blue backlit screen before snapping it shut and sticking it back in her pocket. He nodded, satisfied.

"Patrick?"

"Hm?"

"Can I go see the Opera House?" She winced inwardly; where had _that _come from?

He considered. "Aye," he said finally. "Go ahead."

She smiled and watched him walk in the store, then made her way towards the giant building, weaving through the rather sparse end-of-summer crowd.

"Hi there!"

She made an odd, spasm-like movement and looked at the source of the voice. A boy, not much older than herself, grinned at her in a sheepish (but handsome, she realized) way. He had light, almost dirty-blond brown hair, which was kept trimmed fairly short except for the bangs, which was parted down the right side so that the larger portion curled across his left cheek and obscured his left eye. He had glittering, mischievous amber-red eyes, rather long eyelashes, and medium cheekbones. She noticed there was an odd, crescent-moon shaped birthmark only just visible curving from behind his right ear.

"Terribly sorry, terribly sorry, did I scare you?"

"Not at all," she answered, frowning a little. "Just wasn't expecting… well. You know."

He looked as if he _did_ know, and shrugged amiably. "I just happened to notice you, ah, looking at the Opera House."

"Oh – um, yes. I was going to go look at it…"

That mischievous little grin widened, until she thought she must be able to see all of his white, sparkling, strangely perfect teeth. "How would you like to see _in_ it?"

She gaped at him. "What do you mean? It's locked, and… I don't have a key."

"Oh, I think I can solve your problem, my dear girl." He made a fancy little hand gesture with the right, and held it out, palm up. On it was an old brass key. Fascinated, she reached out to touch it, but he snatched it away at the last second. "Nope."

She blinked, like someone just pulled out of a vision. "But –"

"There's a price, you know."

She sighed unhappily. "There always is."

"Oh, I assure you – not with money."

"Then how - ?"

"Come closer," he said, invitingly. She did as bade, curious. "So, you _really_ want this key?"

"Yes!" Her voice had the urgent tone of one who is eager and not thinking clearly. She leaned even closer. He smirked and pressed his lips against hers. Startled, she tried to pull back, but when he held her there she relaxed. No one even seemed to notice. The kiss quickly turned heated, his tongue exploring avidly, and she mindlessly went along with it. Her brain was numbingly devoid of thought.

Just when she was beginning to realize her violent need of air, he released her and pressed the key into her limp hand. Her fingers seized it, almost as if afraid it was going to jump up and walk away.

"It's yours," he said solemnly (or, at least, solemnly enough as one could be after an exposition such as that). He felt his lips tingling pleasantly. He then told her about the spring-switch in the diva suite, and when she asked he assured her that it would open any door she wanted to try.

She nodded and turned to go, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Oh. And give my regards to Keeran." With that he walked away, a secret smile gracing his features.

She watched him go with a meditative frown. She hadn't even gotten his name.

* * *

_You shouldn't be here_, Vanessa's conscience snarled as she pressed her fingers against the giant doors of the Opera Populaire. She froze, fingers splayed across the wood, then shook her head and pulled the key out of her pocket. She was rather dubious about whether or not the key actually worked, as it was been a mere copy, but what was there to lose or gain? All she wanted was a peek inside…

She paused again to consider, the key poised before the lock. _That's right_, the little voice in the back of her mind coaxed. _Just put that key back in your pocket and forget about this silly adventure. You know there's no Opera Ghost…_

"It's only a legend," she whispered indecisively. Then her eyes hardened as she pushed the key the rest of the way in. She turned it and it clicked satisfyingly, whereupon she slipped inside. Closing the door, she finally took a good long look at the famous Opera House. Her conscience was now quite silent.

"This was _so_ worth the price I had to pay," she murmured, gazing about her in absolute rapture. The statues, while dusty, were magnificent, and the paintings were excellent. She absently pushed the key into her pocket.

"Now where to explore first? The stage? The rooms? The roof?" She looked in each direction as she said them, then hurried off to the apartments. She was especially curious as to Christine Daaé's dressing room, the diva suite.

The boy had assured her that the key would open any door; well, she had no doubt in it by this time; it had passed her test when it at least had opened the front doors.

It was quite obvious that the Opera House had not been inhabited for some time; dust was everywhere, although, she noted, the floors where spotless. She puzzled over this a little, but didn't devote much attention to it; it was a trivial matter. The doors squealed a little on their rusty hinges – it was evidently in need of some good repairs. She quickly glanced through a few of the regular rooms, but when she got to Mademoiselle Daaé's room, she hesitated. Conscience spoke up immediately. _Go! Just go! Don't tempt fate, my dear!_

"I thought you said there was no Opera Ghost," she muttered.

_I didn't mean the Opera Ghost specifically_, Conscience retorted. _This building is so old, and hasn't been lived in for ages – some of the boards may be rotting. What would happen if you fell in, broke your leg, and died of starvation, or blood loss, or madness?_

Vanessa found she had nothing to say to this. She knew that Conscience was just trying to get her out of there, and she decided she wouldn't listen. She tried the door, found it locked, and pulled out her key again. It opened the door without fail.

"Hmm." She walked over to the mirror first; the boy had told her the most interesting tale of how, if she'd care to press a certain part of the wallpaper, the mirror would open to reveal one of the Opera Ghost's famous passageways. At first she doubtful of the truth in this, but after the key, well – she was more than willing to believe. Her small hands roamed the wallpaper in the described spot, and she pressed around the place she guessed it would be. Finally she found a small patch that yielded to the pressure, and after pushing it in firmly, she stood back and watched.

A minute passed and nothing happened. When another minute passed with nothing, she shook her head in disgust and went about examining the furniture and the closet. The closet contained nothing but a few dust bunnies and spare hangers, and the only thing that came from inspecting the chairs was that they needed to be either fixed or replaced. The bed was still in good condition, however, and she peered under it in interest. More dust bunnies, and a slightly larger dust kitty.

She clambered to her feet and was about to leave the room when she happened to glance at the mirror one last time. It shivered slightly. She blinked; her mouth dropped open a little as it wobbled again, and, instead of looking into a mirror, it seemed as if she was looking at a reflection in an upset puddle. She approached it cautiously, curious, and reached out her fingers to touch it. It swung away from her fingers, revealing a passage as had been explained to her. It was lighted a little from the daylight streaming through the windows in the room, but beyond it was black. She suddenly noticed a candle and matches lying carelessly on the bedside table, and scurried over, lit the candle, and began her venture into the inky darkness.

* * *

The siren's arm slid out of the water with a stealthy grace and moved towards one of the unsuspecting rats nearby. The blueish-green feathers made not a sound against the concrete. The thin, almost talonlike fingers inched towards a rodent, and had just about closed upon one when a boot came crashing down hard upon the hand. The siren shrieked in pain and frustration and quickly withdrew the wing. Her head poked out of the water and she glared at her opposer.

"No more rats," Erik growled. "I will not stand for it."

She hissed and then pouted. "I have had no food. There are no fish in the lake for me to feed upon. What else am I to do?"

"How many have you eaten already?" he demanded.

"Two," she answered, all too quickly. It was obvious she was lying.

"You have had more than that."

She hissed again, frustrated. "Fine. Five. Are you satisfied?"

"If I find any missing that do not fit with your number, you will be punished."

She looked at him sullenly. "You will find only five missing. On that I give you my word."

He snorted. "Your word isn't worth much."

She was about to deliver a stinging reply when they both heard a decidedly metallic clang and a muffled string of curses. The siren perked, glancing back in that direction, a sharp-toothed grin gracing her cold features. "Ah… a visitor, Erik."

He waved her off, wondering who had decided it was their business to be under the Opera House. No matter; that person would not be there for long. He watched the strange creature that guarded the lake slip under the water and swiftly swim to the other shore.

* * *

Vanessa picked herself up off the rough ground, rubbing her skinned chin. She had kicked some kind of metal object and had had the misfortune to fall over, uttering swears the whole way down. She leaned down and felt around for it, her fingers jamming quite hard and painfully against a thick, gritty surface. She moved the candle over it, trying to make it out in the guttering light.

It was a cauldron. "Oddity of oddities," she muttered, examining the strange patterns on it. _Probably just a stage prop_, Conscience spoke up, for the first time in about half an hour.

"Probably," she agreed, moving on. She had just come to the edge of a giant underground lake when a strong gust of wind came along and puffed the candle out. She stood frozen in place in the darkness, trying decide which was more terrifying; standing underneath a giant building in the dark or knowing that the gust of wind wasn't quite natural enough for her liking. Fumbling with the pocket of her jeans, she tried to find the matches, but, alas – she had left them in the suite earlier.

"Crud." It was softly spoken, but it echoed eerily around the vast chamber.

She carefully leaned over and set down the candle, meaning to turn around and feel her way back, when a soft, crooning voice came floating up out of the water, singing a sweet lullaby. Her eyes widened a little, then her eyelids drooped. It was so pacifying, and lovely…

Her eyes snapped open and she tilted herself back, away from the still lake. She shook her head vigorously, red hair flying, and listened again. Nothing. But then –

A small splashing noise approximately fifteen feet away from her made her jerk. "Who's there?" she called fearfully.

It had to be a kelpie… She'd heard all about them. They lured people into the water and drowned them for sport. And they looked like a horse. But then, could kelpies sing? She couldn't quite remember. But something else tugged at the edge of her consciousness, something that fled every time an attempt was made to snare it.

Of course, nothing answered. _You're being silly_, Conscience berated her. _There's nothing there. You're imagining it_.

"Am not," she answered defensively. "I heard singing…" But she trailed off, unsure of herself now.

And she had, for there it was again. Coming from farther off; whispering lulling words and sense-dulling reassurances. Coaxing her into the water.

"I shouldn't listen," she murmured, taking a shuffling step forward, then another. "But… it sounds so heavenly…"

She was in the lake up to her knees before she realized it. She shivered; the water was freezing.

"Come, my darling," cooed the saccharine voice. Vanessa complied, up to her waist in no time. Then she stopped again, mechanically.

"No… no, this isn't right. But… I no longer know which way is the shore." Panic began to drill a hole in her brain, eating away slowly like a worm.

Something brushed her leg ever so fleetingly; she gasped and shifted. _Just a fish_, Conscience told her fiercely. _Just a fish. Look! There's light over there!_

She looked in the direction the voice had told her. Indeed, there was a light; but it was so far. But seeing as how she could be the only person in this place, it had to be daylight.

"I'll swim for it," she said finally. The singing had quieted for the moment.

She moved deeper, hardly able to keep from crying out when another something moved against her stomach. Then she began to swim.

She was aware of the thing following her almost immediately; she kept catching glances of it out of the corner of her eye. A fin here, what seemed like a feather there. She swam faster, trying to keep calm. _Just your imagination!_ Conscience shrieked. It no longer sounded convincing. The light was drawing closer; but her strength to swim was ebbing.

It was then she was pulled under. Something gripped her foot and yanked, hard; she gasped as she went down, obtaining in the process a mouthful of water. Then the weight was released, and she bobbed back up, coughing and spluttering as she tried to expel the water that had gotten into her lungs.

She stopped, quite suddenly, and peered around. Blood pounded in her ears and her heart pounded in her chest, but otherwise she could hear nothing. Nothing. Had she imagined the thing, and had gone under in her panicked insecurity? Her nostrils flared and compressed again and again.

She began again, heading for the shore, faster than before. She told herself there was nothing in the water, that it was all a figment of her overactive imagination, but she couldn't help the giddy adrenaline rush that surged through her body. She was almost there – the concrete was tantalizingly inches away from her outstretched fingers – and then she was tugged under once more.

The singing was even louder under the water; much more effectual, as well. Panic forgotten, Vanessa looked around her, fingers lightly treading the water. She looked down, curious as to the source of whatever was holding her down, and let out a silent scream as she saw the siren. Even in the extremely dim light, she could see the monster perfectly; the sight of her broke the spell instantly.

She was running out of air, as well. She had choked down half a mouthful of water when she realized she should keep her lips shut and did so, trying to ignore the burning tightness of her chest. She lashed out with her free foot, desperate to free herself; by pure luck her shoe connected with the siren's face. There was a cracking noise, made all the louder by the medium through which it was carried, and an ear-splitting shriek – then the grip slackened and disappeared. Vanessa broke the surface, gasping, and crawled out onto the concrete, hardly noticing that she skinned the tips of her fingers in the process. She scooted a fair distance away, then flopped back, trying to regain her breath.

"Very good," a male voice commented dryly. "A wonderful performance."

She started, squeaking, and turned to face the man, stuttering. "B-b-but how c-c-c-can you b-b-be here? I th-th-thought th-this p-p-p-p – p-p-p – b-building was d-deserted!"

"I assure you, it's not." She finally got a good look at him, and felt faint. The mask, old fashioned clothes, the candle-lit underground abode…

"You said there was no Opera Ghost!" she wailed pitifully. The Fantomé de l'Opera appeared rather startled at her outburst.

"I beg your pardon…?"

"Just talking to Conscience," she said quickly, all trace of her stammer gone. Then she began fervently muttering prayers under her breath. "Lord please beg pardon on my soul for all my wrongs, Baby Jesus give me mercy for my sins, including that time we pasted Shannon's underwear all over her house…"

The man didn't quite appear to know what to say to this. "Well," he declared at last, "I'm quite afraid you won't be able to leave here alive."

Vanessa howled in absolute utter grief at his words. "Please, Monsieur," she babbled incessantly, adding a garble of French words that went along in the way of pleas, "I promise not to say anything to anyone, just let me go, I have a mother and a father and a brother to think about, not to mention my poor little puppy!" She sobbed here to add emphasis.

"I'll be sure to put your body where they can find it," he assured her, leaning over and picking her up by the neck of her shirt. He was surprisingly strong, and her feet dangled almost a foot off the ground. She squealed in terror and wriggled, a stream of multiple-language entreaties tripping themselves over to escape her mouth.

"I'll do something for you! Anything! I'll be your personal servant! You want the Opera House cleaned, right? I'll clean it! Better yet, I'll get someone to buy it and manage it and –"

He dropped her quite suddenly. "What did you say?"

"I'll clean it," she gabbled, making all sorts of odd hand gestures.

"No, no, the one after that."

"Get someone to buy it?" she asked plaintively.

"Yes! That one!"

"I'll go right out today and have someone buy it," she gibbered, glad to find something that would please him.

He considered this in silence for a few moments. "Yes…"

She scrambled to her feet, overjoyed. "Of course, Monsieur. A nice buyer, someone to take care of this – er – lovely building."

He nodded finally. "Go. But know this – I will be watching you."

She shivered a little and glanced around, trying to discern an entrance or exit she could follow. He was walking away when she spoke up again.

"Um, Monsieur – could you tell me the way out?"

He turned. "I could," he acknowledged.

She watched him. And waited. And fidgeted a little. "Um… Sir?"

He raised the eyebrow not hidden under his mask. "Yes?"

"You were, um… going to tell me the way out?"

"You never asked me to tell you," he pointed out dourly. "You only asked if I could. Which I can."

With any other person, she would've lost her temper, but she kept it tightly reined. "Would you _kindly_ show me the way out, please?"

He wordlessly turned and pointed in a direction; she noticed then the dark passage. "Oh… thank you, Monsieur." She scurried away from him, not quite daring to look back. She had gone a ways before she finally slowed down and chanced a look back, but she couldn't see anything. "Jerk," she muttered.

"_I heard that_," echoed the Opera Ghost's voice from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Vanessa yelped in surprise and ran the rest of the way out.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own… Nothing. Satisfied? …I thought you would be.

Tammy: I'm glad you find Satan… erm… nice… I, personally, wouldn't want to be kissed by a stranger, but then again, you know him, don'tcha? -Wink.- And I'm not sure about the kelpies. I've read about 'em, but the book never said anything about singing… so I wonder… And here's the next chapter. So now you can stop bugging me to update, okieday? …At least for another week. Gimme another week.

savetheduckplz: Thank _you_ for reading it! I only hope I can continue to keep your positive feelings.

Lady Taevyn: Danke Sie! I hope further chapters will stay good for you.

* * *

Vanessa wrung her hands in agitation, staring around the waiting room of the Realtor's office with big, haunted eyes. She continually stole glances at her watch, groaning each time she saw that only a few minutes had passed by instead of an hour. Time positively _crawled_, much to her dismay; it was already three o'clock in the afternoon, and she had promised the Phantom that she would sell it _today_. If she didn't, well… She didn't want to think of the consequences.

Conscience was having a screaming match with Common Sense. The first wanted her to _run away, run away, RUN AWAY_, while she still had the chance. The latter continued to scream back, _If I do, I'm dead! I won't be able to take three steps beyond where He wants me to without being killed!_ She was getting a veritable headache from the two of them.

"Well, _I _simply see no easy way out of this. I do, fail, and die; I don't, and just plain die anyway."

She pretended not to notice the way the woman two seats away was staring at her.

She chewed on her lower lip and sat in relative silence for another agonizing five minutes, trying to block out the shrieking of her inner mind before her brain imploded on itself. She reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out the scrap of paper, reading it once more for the umpteenth time.

_Vanessa,_

_I have found a likely buyer for your quest in the selling of the Opera House. His name is Jasper Jackson, an American, who's looking for a spacious place to move in with his newly-graduated daughter and wife._

_S._

Who was this mysterious _S._? She hadn't the faintest clue. Underneath the single-letter signature was a phone number, and then a post-script. "Tread carefully in the underworld, for there are unseen pits," she murmured, running a small thumb over the red-ink text. She sighed, folded it back up, and shoved it into the pocket again.

At length, she picked up a magazine from the table next to her and thumbed through it restlessly, trying to bypass the ever-sluggish time.

She paused, and read over an article, snickering, her momentary panic forgotten. It described an affair between the Mayor of Paris and one of his subordinates. She turned the page and froze. There was a large picture of the mayor with a dark-haired, very beautiful woman, whose eyes were quite easy to see. They were amber-red. The same peculiar color of the boy's eyes.

"Coincidence," she said dismissively, quickly turning the next page so she wouldn't have to continue looking. She flipped through the rest of it, aimlessly, then put it back and sighed.

* * *

Vanessa seated herself calmly enough an hour later, making sure to straighten her flowered skirt, trying to hide the fact that she was trembling. She quietly brushed off non-existent dust from her white blouse, re-arranged her purse, and when she had pacified herself enough, looked up at the real-estate agent.

He was a somewhat pudgy man, with thick spectacles, and a rapidly receding hairline, although he couldn't have been more than forty-five. His face was clean-shaven, but she could see with the perception of a hawk (or so it seemed to her) that he had a small cut in one spot, just under his lip. A small network of almost imperceptible scars crisscrossed in that spot and that spot alone. She marveled at the way she could see even the minutest of details, but she suspected that was adrenaline and fear, for blood pounded determinedly in her ears.

"Good day, Monsieur Beaumont," she greeted, glad to find that there was no infirmity in her voice; it was as if someone was steadying it for her. "I've come to see you about the Opera House…"

Pierre Beaumont chuckled good-naturedly. "Ah! Interested in owning the fine estate, are we?"

She smiled a little, but it didn't touch her eyes. "No… I, ah, know someone who _would_, however. His name is Jasper Jackson – he lives in America with his wife and daughter." All of this was just coming out of her mouth in a rush. "He's been considering moving out to Paris for some time, and asked me to look into it for him. He wanted something, eh… big." She was saying these words without even thinking; no trace of them appeared in her mind's eye before they popped out of her mouth.

"I see," Beaumont murmured. "Well, do you have the number?"

She laughed, nervously, and recited the number she'd been reading over and over all day. "562-613-3577."

M. Beaumont picked up the phone and dialed the number meticulously, and as he held it up to his ear, her heart began pounding again. What if Mr. Jackson wasn't at home? What would happen when he contradicted her story? They'd never come to Paris and she'd never live to see another bright, shining August day.

"Yes, Mr. Jackson?" He listened for a moment. "My name is Pierre Beaumont, of Beaumont Real-Estate… Uh-huh. Yes. I'm calling because I have a property you may be interested in." A pause. Vanessa could make out a male voice saying something, but the words were too fuzzy for her to understand. "Yes, it's the Opera Populaire, the famous Paris Opera House? Yes, monsieur." Her eyelids fluttered shut and she took deep, calming breaths. Somehow or other, he _was_ interested in the building!

At length, M. Beaumont hung up and smiled across his desk at the girl. "He _loved_ the idea. He's flying out with his wife and daughter at the end of the week." She sighed in relief. He eyed her curiously, then rose from his chair, his manner brisk. "Thank you very much, Mademoiselle, for bringing me a bit of business." He smiled wide. "If I can just show you to the door…"

* * *

She rushed in the doors of the Opera House, overflowing with excitement. "Sir! Monsieur! Sir!" she shouted, twirling around inadvertently as she searched for him. She paused before the grand staircase and twisted at two of the fingers on her right hand, thinking for a moment. "Monsieur Phantom?" she asked finally, the corner of her mouth twitching into either a frown or a smirk, she wasn't sure which. She was Irish, but having lived in Paris for thirteen of her sixteen years, many French words were embedded in her vocabulary. Not to mention the extensive lessons of her native language, German, and some minor Italian.

"So, what… He's not going to show up?" she muttered, after waiting fifteen minutes and getting nothing. "Wait'll Patrick hears about this…"

"You will tell no one," hissed a voice in her ear. She yowled like a cat that had been stepped on and jumped away from him, turning at the same time and managing to bruise her backside quite well on the stairs when she tripped.

"Don't _do_ that!" she yelped, hurriedly standing back up, rubbing the offended area. Marble _hurt_, dammit! "You scared the bejesus out of me!"

"That's rather the point," he grumbled. He let her arrogance slide – as long as it took to figure out whether or not she lived. "Were you successful?"

All of his past offences were immediately forgotten, and her face glowed happily. "Yes! The man who's buying it is flying in at the end of the week with his wife and daughter." She looked quite proud of herself.

"That's, erm… Good, I suppose," he said at last, evasively.

"So I'm free to go now? No obligations or anything…? I just go?"

He shrugged a little. "Well, there is the secrecy bit – tell even _one_ person and you die. As well as the person you told. No one must know I'm here."

She swallowed a little, but nodded. "Gotcha, chief. Mum's the word."

He blinked at her choice of words (not quite understanding all of them), but continued nevertheless. "Also, I may at one time or another require your services again. When that time comes, I will contact you and you will follow my orders. Understood?"

She didn't like the idea of that, but she had no choice but to agree. "Yes, I understand, monsieur."

He gazed down at her for a moment, then turned away in a swirl of cloak – and was gone. Just like that. She gaped at where he had been, and, all sense of previous joy gone, she fled the Opera House (making sure to lock it again behind her, however). She hoped to God it was the _last_ time she'd have to look at it. Or him. He scared her… maybe a little _too_ much.

* * *

Ellen Jackson hummed quietly as she packed her bags. Boxes were stacked in haphazard towers all around the room, some looking as solid as a real stone tower, while others appeared ready to tip at the slightest provocation. The humming quickly turned into a dark buzzing as her temper flared again, then she smoothed it out to its light, happy tones. Her parents were forcing her to move away from her childhood city, the neighborhood she had grown up in, played in, loved in – they were moving to Paris, where they would take up residence in a run-down old Opera House. But she didn't want to think about that. Right now she wanted to pretend she was only going to Paris for a few weeks – she could flirt with the boys, sample the lovely French fashion designs, maybe even visit a few exclusive clubs. Her parents had money, after all; what good was it if it just sat in a bank?

She finished the last suitcase and zippered it, suddenly hating the finality with which that sound announced the change. She stopped her humming abruptly, and snatched the bag by the handle. Then she stormed out of her room, shooting a glare at anything that looked like it needed it. She suddenly paused, turned back, ran into her room, grabbed her pet rat, and resumed her angry course. Annemarie squeaked indignantly from her cage.

She burst out the front door, dead, dried leaves crunching under her expensive black stiletto heels. The flashy navy blue miniskirt showed off her shapely curves, the long, tanned legs attracting the gaze of a jogger who was going by. The muscles she _did_ have in her arms stood out as she gripped the suitcase and cage tightly. She was wearing a lighter blue halter top, which gladly showcased her buxom upper-torso. Her red hair was pulled up on top of her head in a messy bun.

"Daddy, do we have to move?" she whined plaintively to her father, Jasper Jackson (JJ to his friends and generally his wife). He smiled down at her. She was quite a bit shorter than he was, at only 5' 4".

"Sorry, cupcake," he said, as he took her suitcase from her and wedged it in where it would fit in the car; the moving vans would be along presently to take the extra things where they would be loaded on a separate plane. "But we really need a change of scenery."

"But _I_ don't," she simpered, her lower lip pooched out and trembling. Her eyes filled with false tears. "All my friends are here, Daddy! I don't want to leave Thomas, Greg, Barry, Eric, Louis…" She went on reciting the names of her numerous 'boyfriends'.

JJ raised an eyebrow. "Just how many boyfriends do you have?"

"Only one," she said sweetly, then spewed out a half-dozen girl's names for good measure. No need for him to get overworked. The only girl friend she had was Irene, who she'd known from birth.

"Oh, yes. Irene. I'm hiring her on as housekeeper for us, you know."

Ellen gaped at him. "You – you – you're not _serious_, Daddy… You wouldn't make her leave her family and friends and –"

"She seemed rather glad to leave," he said mildly. "Said she was sick of her bickering parents and siblings and didn't much care for the way her friends were turning out. Plus she said she'd get to spend more time with you that way."

Ellen's mouth formed words but no sound came out. JJ, however, had moved on. Michelle, his wife, was already in the passenger's side seat, and was simply waiting for the rest of the family to get moving along. Her head poked out of the tinted window as she rolled it down.

"Ellen, honey, let's _go_! We're going to be late for our plane!"

* * *

The first thing Irene Saunders did upon hearing the screeching voice that was Ellen from the telephone was to hold it away from her ear. She waited until the screaming had subsided, then brought it back.

"Are you quite finished?" she asked crossly. "I'm almost finished packing and could have been done by now."

"You can't come," sobbed Ellen pathetically over the crackle that was undoubtedly the eighteen-year-old's cell phone. "I need you _there_ to talk them into bringing me _back_!"

Irene sighed and stretched her spine, which crackled a little. She flipped her brown-haired ponytail behind her shoulders and readjusted the phone against her ear so she could continue packing. "Look, Ellen – I know you don't really like the idea of Paris as much as your parents do, but really…" She floundered for a moment aimlessly as she tried to come up with an argument. "Think of all the new territory," she said finally. "All those fresh boys… Not to mention their sexy French accents."

The only thing she heard for a few minutes was a few despairing sniffles. Then – "I – I guess you're right, Irene. But – they'll be so heartbroken…"

Irene rolled her eyes. Ellen was talking, presently, about her fifteen-some boyfriends. That was the one thing she'd never been able to tolerate about her friend – the persistent flirtatiousness and the way she used boys and tossed them aside.

"I'm sure they'll just die with grief," she muttered. More than likely they'd each be dating some new girl day after tomorrow.

Ellen sobbed again. "I feel so responsible for their unfortunate deaths!"

Irene was at the point where she _really_ wanted to say "Screw it," and hang up, but she restrained herself. If she said that now she'd never get out of this house. "I'm sure they'll be fine, hon. Who knows, maybe one of them will go long-distance with you…" She shuddered at the idea.

"No," Ellen said softly. "No, it's better if we didn't."

_And happier_, Irene thought, but didn't say. She felt rather guilty about it, actually. "Probably so," she agreed, closing her last bag. She'd need to hurry to the airport now so she could catch her plane. "Listen, Ellen – I have to go. Got to get to the airport. I'll call you when I get to Paris, okay?"

"Okay," she sniffed. "Thanks Irene."

"You bet, sugar." There was a click and a small beep as Ellen hung up. Irene replaced the phone in the cradle and cupped her chin with her right hand, studying the room she'd lived in her whole life, through kittens and Barbies, horses and bands. Now it was bare. It left her feeling rather empty; but it gave her a feeling of freedom, as well. Free from the arguing parents, free from the childish younger siblings, free from the neighborhood that had gone to Hell. She rubbed her forehead a little, to release some of the pent-up tension, and shouldered her luggage. She wasn't taking much; two bags of clothes, a box with her models in it, and a few other boxes containing some of the things she couldn't bear to leave behind, plus her guitar. Everything else was to be donated.

"Good riddance," she muttered.

* * *

Irene stood with her flashy friend Ellen before the huge Opera House. Ellen seemed mightily indifferent, but Irene was just blown away by the craftsmanship.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, stepping back a bit further so she could admire the gold statues that adorned the roof.

Ellen shrugged. "It's a musty old building in serious need of repair," she surmised.

"Let's go in," Irene said quickly. She was quite eager to see the inside. "I wonder what the interior looks like…"

"I dunno," Ellen said doubtfully. "There might still be a chance to talk my parents out of it…" But Irene had already bounded up the circular steps and was searching for the spare key Jasper had given her. Finally she found it and fumbled with the lock, dropping the key twice in her excitement. Finally she got it unlocked and pushed open the big double doors, gasping with amazement.

The huge marble staircase, fitted with an (admittedly) worn red carpet with gold edgings, stretched up to the second floor, with more statues flanking either side. She turned, delighted, and took in even _more_ statues that clung to the fancy balconies that lined the wall for at least three floors. The ceiling was a painted mural, breathtaking in itself.

Ellen noticed none of this. All she could see was the chipped floors and the worn carpet and the extremely dusty quality of the figures. "_Somebody_ obviously liked nude statues in erotic poses," she said dryly. "I can't live in this environment… It's degrading."

Irene wasn't listening. "This place is _fabulous_! I can't believe I'm going to be living here!" She turned to Ellen, her hands clasped underneath her chin. Her face positively glowed. "C'mon, Ellen, let's go explore the stage!" she begged, giving her best friend huge puppydog eyes.

"Alright," she conceded, grudgingly. "Let's go explore the stage. Daddy said he was going to make it into a home theatre system."

"Yay!" Irene squealed, and skipped off in that direction. Suddenly she felt like she was five years old again, visiting that grand theater in New York…

* * *

Erik watched the whole thing silently from his unseen perch on a third floor balcony, just out of sight of the girls. He felt sure that the daughter of this Monsieur Jackson was the brown-haired girl, and that the redhead was just a friend or housekeeper or something. After all, the way she was critiquing everything reminded him of one. He couldn't help but smile a little as the taller of the two pleaded with the other to go see the performance area, and as they went on their way (the brown-haired one positively _brimming_ with joy), he moved in that direction too.

"Irene, slow down!" called the redhead. She sounded rather annoyed. "You know I can't walk that fast in heels!"

"Sorry, Ellen!" the one called Irene apologized, grinning sheepishly. "It's just so… so amazing. Don't you agree?"

Ellen yawned, covering her mouth with a well-manicured hand. "No, not really."

Irene looked a little put-out at that, but she didn't say anything. Erik watched, still quiet, from Box Five.

"Well… anyway…" Irene's voice was soft. "Say… Do you remember reading the Phantom of the Opera in ninth grade?"

Ellen rolled her eyes. "_The_ most _singular boring book _I ever read? Yeah, I remember."

"_Any_ book you read you find boring," Irene muttered under her breath. Judging by Ellen's silence, the girl hadn't heard. "Well, I did some research at my hotel room last night. They had internet over there, you know. And this is the same Opera House as in the book!"

Ellen's eyes were hooded. "Your point, Irene?"

"Wellll… What if the Phantom's spirit is still here?"

"Don't be silly," Ellen scoffed angrily. "There was no such thing as the Phantom. It was some dip's idea of a heartbreaking story."

"No, it really happened," Irene insisted. "I mean, there's so much proof it's hard _not _to believe, Ellen."

"It _never happened_," Ellen growled firmly. "_Period_."

_That's where you're wrong, Mademoiselle,_ Erik thought, but kept still. He didn't want to show himself – at least not yet.

Irene looked down at her shoes. "Okay Ellen. I guess you're… you're right. Silly." She made a face and then giggled, but to Erik it sounded as false as her statement. It apparently pleased Ellen, for the girl smirked and examined some sort of 'flaw' in her fingernail polish.

_Why do you let her bully you? _Erik wondered, curious. _It's obvious you don't agree, but you go with what she says…_

Irene sighed, almost inaudibly. "I'm going to go get my stuff, okay, Ellen?"

"Whatever," Ellen mumbled, examining one of the chairs.

* * *

Irene tried to push down the lump in her throat at she left Ellen's Esteemed Presence. She didn't need to cry, not now. She savagely swiped at her eyes as she went back to the entrance hall. She had no idea of why she was getting so worked up – hell, it was only a small argument compared to others they'd had, but for some reason this one held importance. Something Irene had found marvelous, adventurous, even spooky, Ellen had been indifferent about.

She was so involved in her thoughts, she didn't, at first, hear the singing. When she _did_ hear it, she froze in her tracks, head cocked, heart suddenly in her throat in place of the lump. It was soft, wordless, and melodic, and seemed to just float on the air like mist. Then it was gone. Just like that.

She shivered. "Just your imagination," she murmured, rubbing her bare arms. They had broken out in gooseflesh. "You were so worked up about the 'spirit of the Opera Ghost' that you're hearing things." Still, all of a sudden she felt the eerie sensation one gets when they're being watched. Irene shuddered again and went outside to gather her possessions.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own ANY of these guys, okay? -Waves a big stick at rabid lawyers.-

Tammy: Yeah… Vanessa has to talk to herself. It comes from having only older siblings… And yes, it's good that he DID want the Opera House. There'd be no story otherwise… Hehe. For someone like Ellen, there's always an Irene.

savetheduckplz: Yar, I like Irene myself. She's just… likeable. See what I mean?

* * *

Irene's first day on the job passed pleasantly. She explored and cleaned at the same time, making mental notes here and there to come back and check some things out further. She dusted, vacuumed (where she could – if she couldn't, she swept), polished things, cleaned windows, and after six hours of working she stood before the door to the basement. She stared at it in a tired way, unsure of whether or not she should stop and call it a day. The fingers on her right hand twitched and itched to reach out and turn the knob – but she shook her head. "No… No, I'm too tired to do the basement today." There was also a sense of foreboding about it she didn't think she liked… Something that told the back of her mind to _stay away_, _stay away_, _stay away_. "Stay away," she echoed hollowly. She blinked her clear hazel eyes and turned away from it.

Ellen was, predictably, nowhere to be found. At the first mention of anything close to (or resembling) work, she disappeared. It never failed.

Of course, it didn't really matter to Irene. She almost enjoyed the solitude, and the fact that she received eleven dollars an hour for the job helped quite a bit. Although, there were times when that feeling of being watched had been strong, especially around the basement areas. Irene just told herself she was being paranoid, all hyped up over naught.

It was dark outside now; Mr. Jackson was currently in the bedroom he and his wife now shared, working on ordering the necessary parts to fix up the electrical system. Mrs. Jackson was fussing over the draperies in the theatre area; and the banging of the front doors signaled Ellen's return.

Irene sighed and went up a set of stairs to the next level, then went to Box Five and slipped in. The door clicked shut softly behind her.

Mr. Jackson had told her she could have anywhere she chose as a bedroom. Intrigued by the story of the Phantom, she had zeroed out Box Five. Once the dusty, ripped old chairs were removed, there was room for a small bed (at the moment she slept on a somewhat broken mattress, until she could replace it), which she kept in the upper right corner; her guitar stood on its stand in the lower right. A few boxes were stacked in the lower left, and the door was set into the upper left, with the open 'window' wall shut off by the crimson gold-trim curtains. It wasn't much, but she happily called it home.

She changed into something more comfortable, setting aside her dirty jeans and shirt for tomorrow's half of the cleaning. Clad in grey sleep pants and a baggy, overnight shirt, she began unpacking one of the boxes. She pulled out a flat, rectangular piece of plastic, approximately two feet wide and four feet long, and set it down on the floor. Then she pulled out some smaller pieces; mostly what looked like odds and ends. Glue, a paring knife… "Good… I didn't forget anything," she said, smiling. She left the paint and numerous brushes in the box. She wouldn't need them for a while.

She picked up the knife and a piece of the plastic. Gently she began to shape it.

* * *

Ellen flaunted herself as she walked pristinely up the steps of the Opera House. Although there wasn't really anyone to watch her (or none that were even remotely interested), it was in her nature to do so. She whirled in the front doors, slamming them shut as she did so. "Daddy, I'm home!" she shouted, planting her fists on her hips as she waited for her father.

When he didn't come, she began to grow annoyed. "Daddy? I'm home!" she called again, bounding up the stairs two at a time. She walked to their bedroom, knocking on the door. By this time she was severely irritated.

"Come in," called Jasper's voice vaguely.

She burst in, pouting. "Daddy, you didn't come down to greet me home."

He peered up at her over the rims of his reading-glasses. "Sorry, cupcake. I'm trying to figure out which parts we need to order."

She sniffled. "You never pay attention to me anymore, Daddy…" she whined, looking on the verge of noisy tears. This wasn't true, of course; any moment Jasper wasn't busy, he spent time with Ellen. He figured it made up for most of Michelle's lackluster parenting.

"No, honey," he said quickly, getting up. "Daddy's just been very busy, that's all."

And here came the flood. "That's not true!" she wailed horribly. "You spend more time with Mommy than you do me!"

"Ellen, sweetie –" But before he had time to entreat her, she was out the door, still crying loudly. She bumped past her mother, who looked startled, and went to Irene's room. She knocked, and came in when bade.

"Irene," she sobbed. "Nobody loves me."

Irene looked up from her work, and smiled a little. "Aw, Ellen… Your parents love you very much. So do I."

Ellen threw her arms around her best friend and cried some more. "I love you too, Irene. You're the bestest friend I ever had."

Irene patted Ellen consolingly and set down the piece she had been working with. She eased the sobbing girl over to the bed and sat down with her. "So what do you think of Paris?" she asked, wanting to change the subject and maybe cheer her up.

"It's pretty nice," Ellen admitted, wiping her face. "Irene, I met the nicest guy today…"

"Oh? What was his name?"

"Felix," she said, giggling a little. "Deville. You know, like that cartoon?"

Irene couldn't help giggling herself. "Yeah."

"He's really, really handsome," she added, dreamily. "He wants me to go out to dinner with him tomorrow."

"Good for you! I hope it turns out nicely." But inside, Irene felt a tightening apprehension. Once Ellen was gone, she wouldn't have anybody…

"So do I. He's perfect, you know." She stood up, parting the curtains to look out onto the stage. A contemplative smile crossed her face. "Oh well. I should turn in. Big day ahead of me, you know!"

"Yep. Sweet dreams, hon."

Ellen left, and Irene sat for a while in silence before putting away her things again. She had more cleaning to do tomorrow, and she needed to get rested up.

* * *

Erik sat at his piano, thinking and picking out a few notes. The girls were quite a mystery to him; the fashion they wore was most interesting, and the differences between the two was evident. Irene was a pretty (but modest) girl, obviously the same age as Ellen. She generally wore pants, and a light shirt, while Ellen flashed herself about in skimpy outfits. Irene spent most of the time keeping to herself, while Ellen was constantly out and about. Also, there was an apparent strong bond between the two, although why it was there eluded him. Maybe it was similar to a magnet; opposites attract.

Also, Irene wasn't, as he had first thought, the daughter of Monsieur Jackson. That was Ellen. Irene was Ellen's friend from the place they had lived in before, as far as he had been able to gather. Irene was merely acting as housekeeper, and she had spent most of that day cleaning like a madwoman. He had observed her most of that time, except when other things were necessary to do. He had mostly left her alone near the roof, as there was little chance of being discovered up there, and had during that time kept his eye on Jackson or his wife.

He had tampered (slightly) with Irene's mind, mostly to keep her away from the basement area. He knew it was inevitable that she'd break out of it sooner or later, but it wasn't a very pressing matter.

Not for the first time, he thought of Irene's taking up residence in his box. It amused him that, although she had heard his story, she had still decided to use that as her sleeping quarters. He would more than likely chase her out eventually, but for now he would let her have her fun. He stood up, then swept out of his lair. He would go 'check up' on his housemates.

* * *

_Irene found herself walking down a long, dark hallway. Dark grey walls stretched in a barren expanse, and she could see no end to it. Around her, sounds of mourning tumbled in and around her ears. She pressed her palms over them, trying to block it out, but it only echoed in her head. "Stop, please!" she cried, quickening her pace. Maybe she could stop them herself, if she could find the source._

_The moans increased in volume. In them was conveyed suffering and hate, a deep, vicious feeling. She broke into a sprint, but still there was no end in sight of the corridor. Then she caught a fleeting glimpse of flapping cloth as the person ahead of her ran faster. She ran too, desperate now, for reasons she didn't know. "Wait! I'm not going to hurt you!"_

_She was catching up. Now she could see the outline of the figure, then she could see the cloth. It was dark red, almost like blood, and hung loosely on the frame. She reached out and grasped the shoulder, only having a split second to realize it was wet and sticky, when the thing turned._

_A scream bubbled up out of Irene's throat as she saw the face. It was sunken and deformed, with no nose, and the eyes were a blazing yellow with catlike black pupils. The head had little or no hair that she could see. It was the Phantom, it was Erik, dear God –_

_But then it changed. The head grew more hair, red this time, and the features changed. The cheekbones became more refined, higher up, and the eyes changed hue and sank deep into the face. The mouth had a drawn, pinched look to it, and the nose was obviously broken. It was unmistakably Ellen. She looked dead and alive at the same time. A maggot fell out of her ear and squirmed on the blood-soaked shoulder._

_But it was changing again. The eyes were gone now, replaced by empty sockets, and they wept tears of blood. The hair turned a shade of brown, and the face changed again. The throat gaped like a second mouth, and the original mouth drooled a little, the lower lip split in half. It was disgusting, and horrifying, but even more so to her because it was her OWN face she was looking at, her own mutilated face. The thing that was her lurched towards her, its terrible lips puckered in a grotesque imitation of one about to kiss another. She could feel the hot, rancid breath upon her face._

"_NO!" she screamed, trying desperately to backpedal._

Irene was still screaming that single word when she woke up. She quickly sat up and stared wildly around the dark box, panting. "Only a dream," she gasped. "Only a dream…" She ran a hand through her hair, gulping shakily. She could've sworn, though – really could've sworn – that she had felt breath on her face.

She swung her legs out of the bed, and turned the lamp on, surveying everything. Nothing looked out of place; she was about to go back to bed when she remembered the carpet. On a hunch, she knelt down beside her bed (so as not to muss it up), and examined the black material. It was that kind of floor covering that left foot imprints when walked upon in a certain way.

The sight sent chills skating up and down her spine. As she had guessed, there were footprints there. They looked like a cross between a cowboy boot and a shoe; one of those types of old fashioned dress shoes, more likely than not. She shuddered. No one _she_ knew wore those types of shoes, except one person – or, if you preferred, ghost – and that was the Phantom of the Opera. She crouched there for a moment, hands resting on her knees, uncertain. Then she reached down and brushed the traces from the carpet, and decided not to say anything to Ellen. Even if there was a spirit inhabiting the Opera House, it hadn't harmed anyone yet… no need to get everyone worked up about a benign ghost.

She went back to bed, and for the first time in years, pulled the covers up over her head. Nestled in her dark cocoon, she slept - without dreams, of course.

* * *

Erik cursed himself for his stupidity. He had left visible evidence of his existence; and worse yet, the girl had seen it! He watched her, uneasy, but when she finally turned the light back out he sighed, mainly in relief. She hadn't gone fussing to the Jacksons, in any case, and that gave him some comfort; that didn't mean, of course, that she wouldn't after she got up for the day.

He had been standing by her bed, had bent over her bed, even, to study her face; it had been contorted in a grimace, and her lips had quivered with unvoiced cries. He had prodded, gently, into her dreams, to see what made her so. He had quickly ceased, however, when he realized how close to waking she was, and fled the scene. He had avoided confrontation in the nick of time, but in his haste had forgotten to fix the carpet.

Her dream troubled him. He had only seen the tail-end, to be sure, and yet… The way it was composed was startling. He had caught a glimpse of the face she had been viewing before, but not enough to identify it with anyone. But the second face… The second face had been Irene's own, horribly lacerated. It loomed just behind his vision, taunting him of how little he knew of these people.

He pushed it away and vowed to be more careful in the future.

* * *

Later that day (but still early enough to be called 'morning'), Irene stood before the basement once more. This time she was determined to go down and scope things out. True enough, a basement wouldn't need much cleaning, but she planned on sorting out the junk that wasn't needed and put it out in a pile for the trash. She reached out her slender fingers and turned the knob, astonished at the ease with which it rotated. She had half-expected it to be stuck shut with rust. She pushed the door in, noting wryly that the hinges didn't squeal like they should have, and oh boy, this place was full of surprises. She flicked on her flashlight, scanning the doorway and the passage for a ways beyond for spiders, then stepped in. She closed the door behind her, not sure why, then made careful, slow progress down the corridor.

She shivered at how much it reminded her of her dream. She turned to look back – and screamed involuntarily, which she quickly stifled. In her vivid remembering, she had momentarily seen the awful face in the dark. But it had gone the instant she blinked, thank God. She sighed, and continued on her way, fervently keeping the dream miles from her train of thought.

She hadn't anticipated a _lot_ of crap, but the complete emptiness of the passage was rather stunning. The only thing she could see for a long ways was plain walls and the light coating of dust and dirt that covered the cement floor.

She walked along for quite a while in silence. She remained relatively calm, despite the resemblance to the dream, and when she finally came to a split she sighed in relief. It wasn't endless after all, as it had been in her dream.

The right corridor ended in a faintly illuminated doorway. The left stretched on further into the darkness underneath the Opera House.

Irene opted left. She noted the lack of spiders and found it odd, considering the circumstances; but when she nearly stepped on a rat (and almost fainted from shock and immediate, intense, spiking fear), she found the answer to her unasked inquiry. She blinked after the squeaking, scurrying animal, and made a mental note to talk to Mr. Jackson about an exterminator. Rats could carry diseases.

She began humming softly, to pacify herself, but found it more disquieting than soothing. "Just calm down, Irene," she mumbled. "There's nothing down here but rats and dust. And the occasional cobweb. Nothing to be scared of."

_But there's always the Opera Ghost,_ a devious voice whispered to her. She could feel the malice that Cowardice invoked into its murmurs. _'E'd fix ye up quite right, 'e would. 'Ang ye up like a Christmas goose, aye!_

"Shut up," she whispered fiercely. "Shut up, shut _up_, shut _UP_." Fear and his falsely cheery British accent could go stuff it where the sun didn't shine. She wasn't going to listen.

"_Irene…_"

Her eyes widened and she froze, listening. She didn't answer; nor did she think an answer was required of her.

"_Why are you here, Irene?_"

She hardly noticed she was biting her tongue hard enough to draw blood. "I – I don't know what you m-mean," she answered, straightening herself to her full height. Only a slight stammer betrayed her fright. There was no reply. She spoke up again. "I'm the cleaning lady," she tried. "I'm cleaning the basement." She paused. "How do you know my name?"

There was a deadly silence. "_I know many things, Irene._"

She laughed a little, under her breath. "Gee, do you know when I shower, too?" This was muttered in an undertone.

"_Of course_," said the voice, after some apparent hesitation.

"Damn," Irene hissed. "You've got very good hearing!" she added, as an afterthought. _You also can't take a joke…_

"_There is nothing for you to be doing in this basement, Irene. I want you to leave now._"

"What happens if I don't?"

"_Tell me something, Irene._"

"Anything," she said, reluctantly.

"_Do you have a death wish?_"

"Do I –" Irene swallowed. She smiled vaguely at the darkness, looking around, hoping to find the source of the voice, and chuckled nervously. "I, uh… No, not particularly, no."

"_Then I suggest you leave. As soon as you can, if possible._"

She found it hard to breathe. She fanned herself with a hand. "I, um, understand. Right away. Monsieur," she amended quickly. No need to be rude and ruin her chance of living. "But first – may I ask you something, as well?"

"_Go on_."

"Whoareyou?" She squished it into one tight sentence, and it came out in a terrified wheeze.

There was no immediate answer. "_I am many beings. I am a Demon and an Angel, a specter and a living, breathing creature, a shade, and yet, I cast a shadow_," the voice said finally. "_Does this answer your question?_"

"Enough," she conceded, her heart pounding. It made no sense to her at all; it said one thing and obviously meant another. It contradicted itself many times in one simple compound sentence, but she figured it was better to be content with this answer rather than getting killed for being displeased with it. "Thank you."

This time the voice sounded amused. "_You are welcome, child. Now run along._"

She dipped a shabby imitation of a curtsey at thin air, and turned, hurrying back along the concrete halls of what seemed the underworld. As Irene slipped out the door in the right side of the fork, she giggled nervously to herself. The Opera House, it appeared, had its own personal Hell.

* * *

"It is useless to resist," Irene declared hotly, waving her plastic sword around in a meager attempt to daunt her opponent. She was dressed up in a fancy old pirate's outfit, with a yellow-white blouse that was slightly ruffled in a buccaneer fashion. The skin-fitting brown pants were accented by a black leather belt, with a gold and silver skull belt buckle. "For I am - I am –"

Irene made a disgusted noise and threw down the sword. Ellen, who was also dressed up in a swashbuckling outfit, giggled. "'For I am the dreaded pirate Lady Fayne,'" she recited, for Irene's benefit.

"Oh yeah." She cleared her throat, picked up her cutlass, and recited her lines. "For I am the dreaded pirate Lady Fayne, and you are going to meet your doom!" She made a couple of stabs, then broke down laughing. "Remind me why I'm doing this, Ellen?" She stuck the sword in the scabbard on her belt and walked across the wooden stage, boots clicking.

Ellen grinned. "You know why, Irene. I've only talked to you about it a hundred million times. It's for the play." She looked around the stage, frowning a little out at the empty seats. "Daddy said we could host a play out here to keep us busy. 'Member?"

Irene waved a hand at her. "Psh. I get to play the bad girl, and you play the lovely good person who gets the guy in the end. Who's the guy again?"

"Charlie," she said, distractedly.

Irene raised an eyebrow. "What happened to Felix?"

Ellen shrugged. "It didn't work out. He wasn't that good of a character, anyway." She tapped her foot against the floor for a moment, thinking. "Let's rehearse that one part," she said finally.

"Which one part?" Irene asked warily.

"You know. The one where you're talking to the crew?"

"Oh." Irene walked off the stage to the left, to stand behind the curtains and wait for the cue.

Ellen shifted her position, until she was looking off to Irene's side of the stage. "Oh dear! It's the Cap'n! Hurry up, you scurvy dogs!"

Irene watched, amused; she waited a few seconds, as per instructions, then swaggered out.

"I see you all are busy at your duties," she sniffed, haughtily.

"Aye, Cap'n!" Ellen affirmed. She was playing the role of Maria Santanne, the 'good' pirate captain, under disguise as one of Lady Fayne's deckhands.

Irene sucked in a breath and burst into song, feeling rather silly as she did so.

"_I'm a pirate, a captain, the great Lady Fayne;_

_Scourge of the seas and rich peoples' bane!_

_You see me here, you see me there_

_Good God, by now you must know, I be every which where!"_

Ellen executed a twirl, moving behind Irene and coming out on her right side. She sang now.

"_Nobody dares to question the Lady;_

_A fool's quest it would be._

_Why, now, just look at poor Katie –_

_Gone down and sunk in the sea!"_

Trying to contain her laughter, Irene appeared startled and looked around, picking up her cue to start singing again. She opened her mouth and tried to begin, but found she had forgotten the words. She furrowed her brows and glanced at Ellen. "I can't remember!"

Ellen blinked. "Can't remember what?"

"My lines!" she shouted, frustrated.

"Lines for what?" Ellen looked positively clueless.

"The _play_," Irene intoned, trying to keep a cool head.

"Oh. That." Ellen stared blankly at her best friend. "I can't remember either."

Irene smacked her forehead. "That's great. That's – that's good. Ha ha. Nice try Ellen. Now come on. What's next?"

"I just told you, I don't remember," Ellen said plaintively. "I think it's something about Katie, but…" She shrugged.

Irene rolled her eyes upwards. "Okay, just forget it for today. You needed to write more of the script anyway, didn't you?"

Ellen nodded. "I'm rather stuck on the scene where Lady Fayne was confronting Santanne." And with that said, she walked off.

Irene stripped off her belt and scabbard as she walked down the steps. It struck her as odd that they had both forgotten the next verse of the song, right in the middle of singing it; but she shrugged it off. Things like that had been known to happen. It was just an unlucky turn.

And ghosts couldn't tamper with your mind, could they?

That stopped her dead in her tracks. "No," she said faintly. "No, they can't." She wasn't much of a reassurance to herself, however. She made her feet move again, and they carried her to her room almost without her noticing. "That's not possible. There would've been some kind of horror story about it, surely." But her mind kept coming back to her conversation with the disembodied voice. And her dream.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: …For the love of - Pauses and stares at lawyer standing just beyond her line of reach …Fiiine. I do not own any of the characters in the following chapter. Humphs and waves the stick at the lawyer Now go on! Shoo!

savetheduckplz: The dream IS a little on the crazy side, but, hehe, I think that's from Irene watching too many horror flicks as a kid.

Tammy: Yes, it would seem so! Our ghost is a special ghost.

Lady Taevyn: I don't like Ellen too much either; that might be because I live next to a girl that acts just like her.

Adusiriel: Aw, thanks! I'm glad you like it!

* * *

"Ellen, listen. Ellen! C'mon, listen to me! Please?" Irene pleaded, tugging on Ellen's scrawny arm as the eighteen year old marched to the basement. "You can't go down there! It's… it's all rotted and stuff!"

Ellen stopped and gave Irene a scrutinizing glare. "I don't care. Annemarie ran off and I just _know _she went down there. I want to get her back before something happens to her." Then she was off again, struggling a little as Irene clamped down and acted like a dead weight.

"You can't go down! He'll kill you!" she wailed miserably.

Ellen stopped abruptly. "What? Who?"

Irene's huge eyes blinked. "What?"

"You said, and I quote, 'He'll kill you!'. Explain, please."

"I didn't – I meant – I said –" Irene made a gagging noise. She felt like she was going to be sick. "What I meant was, _it_ could kill you!" She smiled, but it was more of an ill grimace. "I was just thinking of the Phantom of the Opera again. My apologies."

"_What_ could kill me?" she asked, irritated. Irene was acting very oddly.

"The, uh… rotten stuff. You could fall through and break your legs or neck." Irene's hazel eyes searched Ellen's face despairingly. "_Please _don't go down. We'll, um, go out, and I just bet you _anything_ Annemarie will be back in her cage when we come back."

"We-l-l-l…"

Irene nodded, looking hopeful.

"We'll go out _after _I search the basement," Ellen said firmly.

Irene wailed again, but made no further moves to stop her, only hung behind her like her shadow. She knew by now, of course, it was useless to try to daunt her. When Ellen wanted something, Ellen got it.

"Ellen… Ellen, please…" she whimpered, peering into the dark of the basement. "Please…"

Ellen was either ignoring her or couldn't hear. She walked down the steps, disappearing a few moments later. Irene stood framed in the doorway, nibbling her lip, unsure; then with a strangled moan she sprinted in after her best friend.

The dark had an immediate impact. Irene was bitten with the sudden desire that she had had the foresight to bring a flashlight. She chewed on the tip of her finger mindlessly, trying to catch up. "Ellen? Hey Ellen! Wait up! I'm coming!"

Predictably, there was no answer. Claustrophobia began gripping Irene's consciousness, and her lungs almost seemed to shrivel until she could barely get anything in them. Her whole body tingled with a nervous kind of adrenaline. "Ellen… Quit fooling around, Ellen! …Please don't be trying to scare me, Ellen, this _so_ isn't one of Danielle's horror flick sleepovers!"

More silence. Irene was already dreading the fact that any minute now, her dream was going to come true… Except instead of her face mutilated, it would be Ellen's, the blood from Ellen's gushing throat –

A sudden sound behind her made her scream. "Who's there?" she squealed, terrified. "Show yourself!"

She waited, the blood pounding in her ears. After nothing, she sighed shakily. "That was stupid, Irene… show yourself… ha! You couldn't see your hand in front of you stupid _face_." She swallowed. "It was just a rat, more than likely." She giggled a little. It sounded harsh and horrendous. "Maybe it was Annemarie."

Irene let out a startled, choked gasp as her back slammed up against a solid wall. "What the _hell_ - ?" she started to say, but was cut off when her head rocked back, hitting the concrete hard enough to make purple, red, and green spots dance in front of her eyes on the dark. Her cheek stung. "Ow! _Shit!_"

"_I specifically told you there was nothing for you to be doing down here,_" the voice said coldly, just beside her ear.

Whatever she had been about to say to herself next wheezed out from between her partially parted lips like a sigh. "I'm sorry," she rasped, panicked. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

"_Perhaps sorry isn't good enough," _it whispered, in an almost seductive tone. She had to struggle to think clearly.

"I don't want to die," she moaned. "Please don't kill me… It's Ellen's rat, you see. She won't leave without the damned rat!" She waited for a moment. "I really don't want to die…"

She could feel a weight against both of her shoulders, pinning her there. The grip tightened a little, squeezing harshly.

"_Pathetic little fool. Begging for your life…_"

"It's the only one I happen to have," she retorted, immediately regretting it when another slap was administered to her face.

"_You'd do well to watch your tongue,_" it hissed. "_It may get you an early death yet._"

Irene sobbed when she realized how slim her chances of leaving the basement actually were.

The lips – she supposed she could call them lips; that was what they felt like – brushed her ear. "_You need not worry about your friend's rodent. She will be safe here._" She shivered at the contact.

"B-but Ellen won't go without –"

"_That has already been arranged._"

Fear surged through Irene's veins. "What - ? How - ?"

"_Do not trouble yourself with it. I will say it again – it has been arranged._"

She panted into the silence, trying to keep herself from hyperventilating. After several minutes passed with no more word, but also no release in pressure, she dared to say something.

"You… you can let me go now," she said meekly.

"_Ah – yes._" The weight was gone. She rubbed her arms and then her cheek; she'd have to come up with an excuse, for there would obviously be red welts there. It stung hard enough, in any case.

She opened her mouth to say something, but shut it again, deciding against asking what had been on her mind.

"_The next time I catch you in this basement, Irene,_" the voice cautioned, "_I will not be so forgiving._"

"I'll try," she whispered, shuddering again. But there was no answer; the ghost was obviously gone. "So am I," she muttered, hightailing it out as fast as she could possibly go.

* * *

Ellen ignored Irene's childish whining as she descended the stairs, her heels clicking hollowly on the cement. Irene was always saying things that never made any sense; Ellen had come to the conclusion that if she didn't understand what she said, it wasn't worth paying attention to. This was a good case of that. Irene had babbled a lot of nonsense, and thus there was essentially nothing to worry about.

"Irene and her ghost stories," Ellen mumbled to herself, stretching out her fingers to feel for the walls. As with Irene, she found herself wishing she had been wise enough to bring a flashlight. But of course, that was impossible now; she was too far in to go back. Something about Irene's behavior nagged at her, and she feared that if she went back now she'd go chicken and not come back down.

Besides, she had poor Annemarie to think about. Her poor little rat was probably lost and hungry and scared. She pressed on, her lips compressed into a thin little white scar-like line.

Distantly, she heard Irene calling to her, trying to entreat her… probably to go back. Ellen tuned her out, which was why she didn't hear Irene scream, or the very faint voices. She was only vaguely aware, after that, that she couldn't register the other girl.

Grit crunched under her shoes, and once or twice something heavier cracked in a sound almost like a gunshot in the dark, damp, musty passages. She didn't want to speculate on what kind of bug might make that kind of noise. Or what the bottom of her shoe must look like.

A rustling noise caught her attention. Then there was a scrabbling of claws. "Annemarie…?" Ellen asked, hopefully. There was no answer; but the sounds stopped. Ellen stood still, looking around, the hair on the back of her neck standing at attention. She didn't want to think of Irene's spooks; but they came anyway, unbidden.

"_Ellen._"

She started, but was not much more surprised than that. Ellen was practical; it was either a ghost, or it wasn't. She wasn't too concerned about it. "Whaddaya want?" she asked snobbishly.

There was a moment of silence. Ellen grinned, rather smugly, at the darkness. It appeared this 'spirit' was taken aback. "_What is it you are here for?_" it said, at length.

"My rat," she said bluntly.

"_Your rat is not here_."

"But she is!" she whined. "I can't find her anywhere else!"

"_You do realize how big this Opera House is, yes?"_

"Well, yeah…"

"_Your rat could be anywhere. In fact… _she_ could have moved from the spot she was in while you searched somewhere else," _the voice pointed out.

Ellen considered. "Maybe…"

"_I want you to leave. Now._"

"But I'm not done searching down here," she complained.

There was a definite sigh. "_I have told you, she is not here._"

"Who's to say I believe you?" she demanded hotly. She folded her arms underneath her considerable bosom and glared at any particular direction that struck her fancy.

"_I could, say… Kill you… Then you'd never know._"

She snorted. "I bet you couldn't harm a flea on a grandpa's knee."

There was a brief, confused moment in which the ghost was obviously thinking this over. "_Your phrases are strange," _it said at last. "_But I gather your meaning, and I must congratulate you on your supreme stupidity."_

Her eyes widened and then narrowed into angry slits. "_Excuse_ me? Was that supposed to be an insult?"

"_So what if it was?_" the voice said, in an offhanded way. "_I'd rather like to think of it as the unvarnished truth._"

"Okay, then, Ghostie Man, tell me how I'm stupid."

"_You have been repeatedly ignoring my threats,"_ it said, coolly, "_you continue to insist your rat is here when it is not, and you have the gall to be underneath my Opera House._"

"_Your_ Opera House?" she shouted, fists clenched at her hips. "For your information, this is my _father's_ Opera House."

"…_Maybe so. We shall see."_ There was a grudging tone in that voice that Ellen mistook for grim acknowledgement of defeat.

That was all Ellen knew. For after that, everything went black; upon waking later, she would find the entire half hour spent in the underworld was a dim gray haze.

* * *

Irene wiggled her way inside a hoodie that was beginning to get too small; it read 'UNIVERSITY OF PITTSBURGH' in big, black and white embroidered letters. She tucked her wallet into the right front pocket of her faded, dusty-blue jeans, adjusted her ponytail, and went out. Ellen, bless her heart (what heart she DID have), had given up the search for her rat. As she closed the doors of the Opera Populaire and locked it (the Jacksons were on a family outing), she had the wild, insane urge to throw away the key and run as far as she could, as fast as she could. But she knew that was ridiculous; she couldn't just abandon Ellen, her only friend, to this place; and besides, it wasn't like Ellen had any more reason to visit the basement. Irene didn't, either, because the basement was no longer an obligatory visit as far as her cleaning duties went. Thank God for small favors.

She slid the key into her other jeans pocket, humming giddily. Three days had passed since the rat had gone, with Ellen's parents none-the-wiser, and no sign of the Phantom (for she had quite convinced herself that it was HIS ghost that haunted the place, and why not?), and so Irene considered things were going much better. Much, much better. True, the basement had become something of an otherworldly terror to Irene, but that was mostly avoidable.

_So you think_, whispered Doubt.

"Shut it," Irene mumbled, quashing the pesky voice. But it was too late; a tight ball had formed in the pit of her stomach. Dread. Of what? "Of going back into the basement," she breathed, looking down at her hands, which were by her hips. They were balled tightly enough to almost cut her with her fingernails. She made them relax, with an effort, and looked back up at the big doors. What had once seemed so beautiful and serene now looked murderous. "You're crazy," she whispered, forcing herself to look away. She walked down the steps, threw one last, hasty glance at the huge building, then hurried down the sidewalk at a fast walk.

Once the Opera House was out of sight, a tremendous weight seemed to be lifted off her shoulders. She stepped a little livelier, taking in the views, breathing in the crisp, refreshing Autumn air. It was certainly more relaxing than the slightly stale air indoors. People in light jackets walked along, store windows displayed cheery items, and the sky was reasonably clear; only a few mere wisps of white cloud.

"What do I do now?" she wondered, almost expecting someone to answer. But of course, someone _did_ answer.

"That's hard to say, Miss." She turned, surprised, to see a young man of perhaps twenty-one. He had messy black hair, bright green eyes which sparkled with a kind of hidden humor, and slightly tanned skin. He was skinny, and wore a reasonable pair of stained bluejeans and a somewhat baggy maroon t-shirt with the slogan, "Does your little brain get lonely in your BIG HEAD?" underneath an open black jacket. He didn't look French any more than she did, she observed. He was taller than her by about four inches, and he smiled down. "But if you're hard-pressed for something to do maybe you'd like to go to the museum." He hesitated a moment, then added, "With me."

"I – I –" She was horrified to find herself speechless. He was cute, no doubt about _that_, and she'd love for something to take her mind off of the Phantom and all the things that went with him, but he was asking her on a _date_, for God's sake, and she wasn't Ellen – she didn't know the first thing about guys. Her parents had always isolated her from that kind of contact, and before, boys had never seemed interested. What if he wanted to do something she didn't? "I –"

"I understand if you don't want to," he said suddenly, the smile fading a little. "I'm sorry. You asked, and I really – uh, just forget it, okay?"

He looked like he was going to walk away. Feeling guilty, Irene reached out and snagged his sleeve with two fingers. He looked back at her curiously.

"I'd l-like to go see the museum," she stammered. "With you," she added, in case he didn't quite understand what she meant.

His smile reappeared. "That's great," he said cheerily. He paused and looked down at her seriously. "You're sure?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to say anything.

"I'm Jake," he said, by way of introduction, as he walked down the sidewalk. She was relieved to find he didn't want to hold her hand or anything.

"Irene." She found it hard to look at him, but forced herself to do so, anyway. He was looking at her. "Nice to meet you."

"Same, same," he replied. "So where ya from? You don't look all that French to me."

"We lived over in a Manhattan suburb," she said, examining the displays with fervent interest.

"America, huh?" He laughed. The sound was quite pleasant. "Me, I lived in a cute, rural little Pennsylvania town until about last year. Then I moved out here."

"Oh?" She finally looked at him again. "What for?"

"Well, Paris just seemed like an intriguing place to be. All this history, you know?"

"Yeah," she murmured, hugging her hoodie a little closer to her. There was a lot of history, you bet your ass. She lived near quite a bit of it.

"What about you?"

"I'm working as housekeeper for my friend's parents." She winced, inwardly; why was she telling him all this? "Over at the Opera House."

"That old place, huh?" Their footsteps tapped out a rhythm on the stone stairs leading up to the museum. "I've never been in it. What's it like?"

"Very beautiful," she said modestly. "But also kind of spooky."

"That old legend about the Opera Ghost, eh?" he teased, grinning. He held open the door for her.

"Oh… I'm not so sure it's just a legend," she said. _More than sure_, whispered that little inner voice.

"Could be," he agreed, shrugging. "No one will really ever know, I suppose."

"Yeah…"

He paid for them, then led her into the main room. "So you're interested in history?" she asked, trying to get the Phantom off her mind again. She'd never truly enjoy the day until _that_ was done.

"Yeah. I majored in it, but there's not really that many jobs that need history, now is there?" He laughed again.

"There are some…" But she couldn't think of any, and he didn't pursue the subject. For that she was glad.

* * *

"Thank you," she said, as they stopped at the stairs leading up to the Paris Opera House. "I quite enjoyed the museum."

"You're very welcome. I enjoyed it myself." He held out his hand, but she only stood and stared at it, uncomprehendingly. He smiled again and snickered. "You're supposed to shake it," he chided gently.

"Oh! Of course." Blushing, she shook his hand. The whole 'date' had been something of a relief; he'd hardly touched her, except to maybe point out something when she appeared to miss it. And now he simply wanted a handshake. As well, she hadn't even thought of the Ghost. A lovely excursion.

They lapsed into silence for a moment, each studying something that had caught their fascination. With Jake, it was the building; Irene was examining a crack in the steps, of all things.

"Well," he said at last, "I'll be going, I guess."

"Okay," she said, stupidly, hating herself for not knowing what else to say. "It, um… was nice to meet you."

He was polite enough not to point out that she already said that. He tipped an invisible hat to her, smiled again, and left. No 'Can I see you again?', no 'Do you have a boyfriend?', no 'Let's go on another date sometime.' Just a little tipping of a theoretical hat and bye-bye Jake.

She gaped after him, her thoughts a confused jumble of emotions. Seeing the Jacksons' quaint little American Subaru pull up, she closed her mouth and pasted on a smile to greet them. "Hey, Ellen!" she yelled, waving at the short American beauty who stepped pristinely out.

"Hey, Irene!" she likewise called, looking content. "How was your day, girl?"

She considered telling Ellen about Jake, but decided against it. She didn't need Ellen's teasing right now, so she replied with the customary, "Oh, you know. Boring as always." She shrugged casually and flipped her ponytail behind her shoulder.

"Irene, Irene, Irene," Ellen sighed, wrapping an arm around her, "you really need to find a guy." She walked a few steps up and stood in front of her. "_Or_," she continued, "maybe you already _have_ a guy, but are incapable of wooing him!" She leapt out of reach of Irene's swiping fingers, surprisingly balanced on her heels.

"Ellen, we've been over this," Irene said, giggling a little as she grabbed for Ellen again. "Guys don't like me. Period."

"All you need is a little make-over," Ellen retorted, just barely avoiding Irene again.

"Make-_up_, you mean?" She finally caught Ellen and began to tickle her.

Ellen was laughing too hard by this time to give a straight answer.

"Glad to see you girls so cheerful," Michelle said vaguely as she breezed past. That, of course, sent them into gales of laughter. They collapsed into a sitting position on the stone, cackling madly.

* * *

Erik sat quietly with Ellen's pet rat in his lap, troubled over the way things were turning out. He had watched Ellen and her parents go, and then had watched Irene leave. Irene troubled him most of all; it wasn't that she was disobedient, because she wasn't, and it wasn't that she was overly snotty, because she wasn't, and –

"And yet, everything's wrong with her," he said aloud, startling the rat called 'Annemarie'. She squeaked at him. "I am sorry," he murmured. She squeaked again, seeming satisfied; Erik lapsed into silence again. She was _too_ obedient, _too_ quiet. It was unsettling, in it's own way. And then she had returned to the Opera House, not _alone_ – but with a boy. A skinny, sallow, obviously underfed boy who Erik guessed could no more lift anything than he could differentiate between good clothes taste and bad.

"Hum," he muttered, picking up Annemarie. He held her close to his face, examining her. She was a fairly smart specimen; when bred with another one of his exceptionally superb rats he would have the perfect rodent. She sniffed his nose, tickling his unprotected cheek with her whiskers.

He smiled fleetingly and replaced her to her original position, his thoughts turning to Ellen. Conceited, moody, and extremely independent, Ellen was the complete antithesis of Irene. And yet, they continued to have a strong, lasting friendship. It still puzzled him, even after having almost a week to observe.

After the incident in Irene's room, Erik had taken careful pains to remain hidden. He surmised that the only reason he had slipped was all those years of being lax in between owners.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own a speck of anything from Phantom of the Opera.

* * *

"Irene! Hey, Irene! Where are ya?"

Irene started, nearly losing her hold on her book and losing her page. "Here, Ellen!" she called, snatching her bookmark off the bedside table and marking her spot. She actually felt rather guilty about what she was reading; her situation was spooky enough without her getting hyped up over more crap. She set down _It_ and stood up, leaning out over the balcony to see Ellen standing below. "What's up?"

"I just wanted to ask you if we've been down in the basement yet. I don't seem to recall seeing down there…"

Irene hoped to God she hadn't turned pale, but more than likely she had. "Yes!" she nearly squealed. "We already did!"

"We did?" Ellen asked doubtfully. "Are you sure?"

"_Very_ sure!" Irene grinned nervously down at her, trying to reassure Ellen that yes, they _had_ been down there. "Why do you ask?"

Ellen shrugged amiably. "Dunno. Just curious about the basement…"

"Well, there wasn't really anything down there except for the rats…"

A light went on in Ellen's eyes, but Irene didn't see it. "Okay, Irene… Thanks. Sorry to bother you."

"Oh – you weren't really bothering me," she murmured, watching the red-head walk out of the stage area. "Not at all."

* * *

Ellen swung open the eerily silent basement door and clicked on her flashlight, illuminating the darkness that permeated the cold cement passageways. Bugs skittered across the floor, sometimes followed by rats, but with the addition of this new and foreign light source many things scrambled for cover.

She placed her foot on the top step and paused, listening; there was, of course, nothing. Why would there be anything? Mentally scolding herself for her foolishness, Ellen continued down, nearly tripping herself when she missed the bottom stair.

Ellen trailed her fingers along the slightly crumbly walls, her fingernails making light scratching sounds. The flashlight beam pierced the darkness ahead.

She found it rather odd, in a low-level sense of the word, that there was positively _no_ junk down there, but she immediately dismissed it as she approached the fork in the tunnel and, just beyond it, some kind of shape in the darkness. She quickened her pace, the clicking rhythm of her heels increasing. She got closer to the fork, but the object continued to stay about the same distance away. Frustrated, she ran, ignoring the way she wobbled precariously.

She didn't get very far. A few feet, and then her heels, rather cheap and unaccustomed to the strain, broke. The flashlight went flying and then the light went out. Ellen fell, and had enough sense to throw out her hands and cushion her fall somewhat. It was lucky enough for her that she didn't sprain her ankles; but of course, she was too busy cursing the 'goddam ungrateful sonnuvabitching shoes' to really notice this or the faint rustling behind her.

Still muttering under her breath, Ellen gingerly picked herself up, brushing off her jeans and fumbling around in the dark for the flashlight. She gasped sharply as a shard of glass cut the skin on her palm, and then her fingers closed around the cool metal cylinder of the flashlight handle. She searched for the button, clicked it once, twice, three times, and then discarded it. "Damn thing's broken," she muttered, slowly turning around in a tight circle until she was facing the other direction. "Now… there was a fork back up that way _somewhere_… and a door. If I can just find the door…"

"_A door will not be necessary for you_."

She jumped a little, surprised. "What?" Not _who are you_ or _what are you_ or even _what the HELL?_ Just _what_.

"_I made it quite clear the first time, mademoiselle, but I will repeat it for your benefit. I said you will not be needing a door."_

"And why is that?" The tone that came out was the cool, haughty voice Ellen usually took on when her demands were being countered. It was what Irene most often called "Ellen's Please-Oh-Please-Just-Strangle-Me" voice.

"_Because you will not be leaving this place. Do you understand?_"

"Oh, I'm so scared," Ellen mocked. "What are you gonna do, Mr. Ghosty? Chain me to a wall?"

"_No, actually… I'm going to kill you_."

Undeterred, Ellen started walking. "I'm _really_ scared now."

"_You should be_," the voice hissed, and Ellen began to respond, but was cut short when she felt a length of rope slip around her neck and tighten. A noose.

Her eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare."

"_I _would_ dare… and I _do_ dare. Try me, I beg._" The hangman's rope tightened more.

"I… I, uh… No, thanks," Ellen muttered, finally sounding a little worried.

"_Well, regardless, I have to kill you._"

"You, um, do?"

"_Indeed. No witnesses are the best witnesses._"

"Witnesses to _what?_" Ellen complained.

The rope slackened a little, as the ghost hesitated. "_Well…_"

"I mean, if you think about it – ULP!"

"_Quiet_," the voice snarled, choking Ellen off in the middle of her sentence.

She squeaked an affirmative. Ghosts you could hear but not see was one thing; ghosts you could hear and not see but could FEEL was entirely another. For once in her life, Ellen was afraid.

"_Do you know the Paris library?_"

"Well… well, I, uh, yes. I think so."

Silence. Ellen tried to get her heart under control; it was thumping around like a jackrabbit in a box.

"_You might do_…"

She coughed. "Uh… do whULP." The noose had cut her off again.

"_Tell me, Ellen… Does your friend Irene pry a lot?_"

Confused, Ellen gave a straight answer. "Well, no. She's usually very keep-to-yourself, and doesn't ask unless she thinks she's expected to. Which she doesn't often…"

More silence. Almost considering this time.

"_Yes… There might be a way for you to live, then._"

"How gracious of you," she grumbled.

* * *

Irene poked her head up out of the hole in the floor and coughed, her face smeared with oil, dust, and grease. She held the wrench out to Jasper, who was crouching nearby with a toolbox. "I need a… uh…" She clicked on the flashlight and disappeared for a moment to re-check the connections. "Screwdriver. Small one," she amended, as he reached for the somewhat larger one. He grinned and handed her what she asked for, brushing stray reddish-blond hairs out of his eyes, which were the same shade as Ellen's pretty green.

"How's it coming?"

"Almost got it," Irene's voice floated up. "Just a few more…" There was a popping noise and a little squeal from Irene. The top of her head resurfaced, the top of a sheepish grin just visible. "Uh… Could you, um, pass me a pair of blue wires? About…" She thought about it for a minute. "Three feet long each?" While he measured it out Irene wiped her face off with a white hanky that was rapidly turning black. "That'll finish the giant monitor… By the way, wherever _did_ you find such an enormous LCD screen?"

"It took a while," he admitted. "But eventually I found this supplier right here in France. Funny, huh?"

"Hilarious," she said. She shook her head and laughed. "Anyway, after this is all hooked up, I just need to wire the plug so you can hook up a DVD player or laptop to it…"

He nodded and handed her the wires. She disappeared again and he sat in silence for about fifteen minutes.

"Daddy!"

Jasper looked up to see Ellen poking her head through the big, red double doors. "Yeah?"

"I'm going over to the library for a while, okay?"

"That's fine," Jasper called back, mystified.

_Clunk!_ "Ow, geez!"

Jasper leaned over the hole, amused. "What is it?"

Irene rubbed her scalp, looking irritated. "A stone fell on my head!"

* * *

Ellen leaned on the library counter, looking around and waiting for someone to help her out. Finally, a boy who looked around seventeen came up.

"Can I help you out?" he asked, in heavily accented English. Ellen didn't even notice the way his eyes kept straying.

"Yes, um… Could you direct me to the… er… uh…" She paused for a moment, her face scrunched up as she thought. "Science section?"

He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. "Follow me, Mademoiselle." He went around the large, polished counter and she followed him as he walked through huge sections of tall shelves.

"Right this way…"

Ellen found herself rather amused that 'this' came out 'zis'. But what else could she expect? This was Paris. People were bound to talk a little odd.

"Here you are," he concluded, gesturing to the entire two bookshelves dedicated to modern science. Ellen stared at it as he walked away.

"Well," she amended, "not every book has a different subject… so…"

She eyed the shelf directly across from her, tapping her chin with her fingers. She finally pulled out a thick, leatherbound book. Setting it in the crook of her arm, she pulled out a slightly smaller book, and then went over to one of the smaller tables and pulled out a chair.

She opened the bigger book and leafed through it, studying the illustrations. She squinted one eye. "This… might take a while."

Still, she thought, it was better than being dead.

* * *

"_There_ you are, Ellen!" Irene said, sounding relieved. "Glad I found you so easy. Your parents want to watch a movie with us."

Ellen looked at Irene vaguely, pausing her descent of the stairs. "Huh?"

"…I _said_, your parents want to watch a movie with us! Weren't you listening?"

"Oh. Sorry. Guess I'm kinda… spacey. Tonight." This last word was added almost as an afterthought.

Irene shrugged it off uneasily, where it hovered quietly at the back of her mind. "Well? C'mon. I want to show you what me and your dad hooked up this afternoon while you were out." Leading Ellen along like a patient older sister with a toddler, Irene entered the stage area. She had in her hand a small remote. "See? Watch."

Irene studied the remote and then pressed a button; the lights dimmed. There was an appreciable 'Oooo' from down the row; it seemed Michelle enjoyed the affects.

"Impressive," Ellen said dubiously.

"But that's not all," Irene announced, grinning. She pressed another button, and with a mechanical whirring noise, the giant LCD monitor descended. A gasp from Michelle, a chuckle from Jasper, and a moony-eyed stare from Ellen.

"How - ?"

"We rigged it, sugar." Irene frowned; Ellen really WAS spacey tonight.

"…Oh. Of course."

Ellen sat down next to her father and Irene sat down next to Ellen.

"You guys ready?" Irene asked. There was a general murmur of assertion, and Irene pressed another button. The previously black screen lit up with a green rating sign, and the movie, _Dreamcatcher_, began.

* * *

Irene dragged three heavy trashbags down the halls, out the doors, down the steps, and to the trashcans a short distance away. Heaving and sweating, she paused to rest before she put the bags in the cans. She looked up at the Opera House, still feeling that sense of awe she felt the first day, almost two weeks ago. But awe was also accompanied by fear and a maniacal foreboding that Irene didn't like.

She started a little as the doors opened, tensing, but she relaxed when it was only Ellen who appeared. She waved. "Hey Ellen! Where ya goin'?"

Ellen looked at her like a person pulled from a dream in the climactic moment; unsure and a little bewildered. Then she seemed to realize who was speaking. "Oh… to the library…" And she kept walking, disappearing around a corner before giving Irene a chance to respond.

"Library…?" Irene repeated, dumbfounded. Since when did Ellen have an interest in books? Still reeling over the revelation, Irene opened the lid on the trashcan and prepared to lift the bag in when something that was already _in_ the can made her freeze. She released her grip on the white plastic and reached in, pulling out a broken pair of heels; one of Ellen's favorites, in fact. A dark, saucy red. "Books? Broken heels? What the _hell_ is going on?" Irene whispered, turning the shoes around in her fingers to examine them. The soles were severely scuffed, and the heel itself had been broken off on both, leaving jagged edges. The toes (_ha-ha, what toes?_ she thought numbly, which was what she said to almost all of Ellen's pointy toed heels, but this was thought more in an effort to get back into a recognizable rhythm) were deeply scratched.

She put them back in the trashcan, deeply troubled. She gazed thoughtfully down at the white bags, unmoving.

"Need some help with those, little lady?" A pair of hands took the first bag and lifted it almost effortlessly into the can.

She looked up, feeling stupid, only to find herself surprised. "Jake!"

"That be my name – don't abuse it," Jake said, grinning. He picked up the second one. "What kind of person employs a lady to do the trash, anyway?"

She grabbed for the third one before he could get it. "I'm perfectly capable," she said defiantly, trying not to grunt as she lifted it in. "See?"

"I see, I see!" he cried, holding up his hands, palms out, in a gesture of defense. He couldn't contain a few chuckles, though. "I misjudged you." He doffed the Invisible Hat and made a bow. "Beg your forgiveness?" he asked, kneeling down, looking up at her with big eyes.

Embarrassed, she bit her lip. "Well, I –"

"Say no more!" He jumped to his feet, replacing the trashcan lids deftly.

Irene stared at the closed trashcans with something akin to disbelief.

"So what's up?" Jake inquired, jerking her out of her reverie.

"Oh… nothing much…" She considered, then used a phrase from the movie they'd watched last night. "SSDD."

His eyebrows rose. "You watched that movie, huh?"

"Yeah."

He cocked his head and looked at her closely. After a moment he dismissed it. "So… you busy today?"

"Well… um…" She thought about it for a minute. "I have one more thing to do… why?"

"Well, I was thinking…" He looked up at the overcast sky for a moment. "If you weren't too weighted down, you might, ah, want to go see a movie. You know."

She shrugged extensively. "I… suppose I could…" He smiled. "I have to finish my other thing, though, so I get paid… And then change…" She gestured to the dusty, dirty clothes. He nodded. She looked up at the Opera House for a moment. "Would you like to come in? Just in case it starts to rain." She was reminded overwhelmingly of vampires. _Too much Stephen King_, she reprimanded herself. Jake wasn't a vampire, and it wasn't going to hurt to invite him in.

He followed her up the steps, seeming quite as impressed by it as Irene had.

* * *

Irene peeled off her dirty shirt and carefully hung it over a box so she would remember to put it in the laundry later. Then she pulled on a fresh t-shirt, slipped on her white jacket, stuffed her wallet in her pocket, and hurried back downstairs. Having Jake in the Opera House worried her; God knew the ghost seemed only interested in his basement, but who really knew for sure? It was better to be safe than sorry. And Irene planned on being _very_ safe.

He was sitting on the bottom step on the marble stair, his back to her. She had to resist the insane urge to pounce on him; that would only result in possible injuries. The floor was hard, after all. And why should she pounce on him in the first place? Ridiculous!

He looked back at the sound of her footsteps with that almost ever-present smile and got up. "All done?"

"All done," she confirmed, smiling a little herself. It was hard _not _to; he was just too damn cheerful.

They were almost to the door when Irene had the good fortune to look up – and see the statue that was tilting… tilting… Irene puzzled on it for a moment before realizing.

"Watch out!" She pushed into him and they both tumbled to the floor just as the statue crashed with a resonating bang. Trembling, Irene scrambled to her feet, keeping a wary eye out for more statues. "Are you okay? I'm really sorry!"

Jake stared at the statue with dazed amazement. "You… you saved me."

Irene suddenly was reminded of a hundred different movies and decided she didn't like the way he said it. "It was luck," she said hastily. "I saw it coming and the response was pure reflexes."

He got up, still gazing at the statue. "You still saved me." He turned to her, a look of concern crossing his face. "The question is, are _you_ okay?"

"I'm fine," she mumbled, rubbing her arm. "Just a few bruises. I'll be okay. Let's get out of here."

"Your friend's dad - ?"

"It simply looks like the statue fell. No need to have him think otherwise." _Like the fact that maybe the ghost dropped it_, she thought, and grimaced.

"You're sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," she snarled, momentarily losing control; fear snapped out like a weasel and bit the first thing it saw. "How many times do I have to say it to make you believe me?"

He drew back a little, surprised. "Geez, I'm sorry. It's just that – it's not every day you get a statue dropped on you."

"Let's just go," Irene muttered, not quite daring to look him in the eyes. She felt ashamed at having let her emotions get the better of her.

"Right you are," Jake agreed, looking around nervously at the other statues.

* * *

"Damn," Erik growled, as the fool girl pushed the stupid boy away from the falling figure. His plan had failed, and most shamefully. Bested by a nineteen year old. He hissed in frustration and moved so he could have a better vantage point of the conversation.

"…pure reflexes," Irene was saying, her feet shuffling minutely.

"You still saved me," the boy responded, and then he asked her if she was okay.

"I'm fine," Irene said, almost inaudibly. "Just a few bruises."

_You'll be lucky if you get away with that when I'm through with you, _Erik thought viciously. No one crossed him. _No one_.

Erik fumed silently to himself as the girl and her boy left. Irene wanted to interfere, did she? Well, that was her loss. Of her life, that was.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I DON'T OWN THE CHARACTERS, DAMMIT. LEMME ALONE. --

A/N (before review replies): I'm so, so sorry about this taking so long, guys. I've had this wrote for ever, but I just… never got around to uploading it. So much has happened lately – I went back to public school systems, made friends, got a boyfriend… it's all been so hectic. So I really am sorry, I do apologize, and here's chapter six for ya.

Tammy: Lmao, I know YOU wouldn't mind being chained to his bed… and yes! Jake is back! Delectable Jake… mmm… too bad I'm not single anymore, hehe.

Mara-SS: Oi! Glad to have you along! It's good you like the story, too…. Hehehehe….

Sasha Arai: Another new reader! Awesome! I love that you love it. You rock my socks.

* * *

Ellen tapped her foot impatiently against the carpeted floor of the Paris library while the girl behind the counter checked out three books; the volume on Science she was half way through, a mathematics textbook, and a smaller science book. She had decided to get a library card and make the learning easier; she wouldn't have to walk to the library every day and waste all that time. She smiled as the girl handed her her books, and she left.

The days were getting colder as October rapidly approached; Ellen hugged her jacket closer and shivered a little against the sharp wind. Rain pattered in a steady rhythm against her head. Sighing, she moved her arms so as to protect the pages of the books she was holding.

"Can't wait for the empty," she murmured.

* * *

Irene stepped out of the glass revolving doors of the theatre into the cold late-evening air and shuddered at the change in temperature. Jake followed a moment later, looking equally as unhappy about the cold. "Good thing your place isn't too far," he commented.

She said nothing, just started walking. After a few seconds of contemplation, Jake sprinted after her. "Hey, what's wrong?"

She glanced at him. "Nothing." She looked back down at the ground. "Everything," she mumbled. She sighed. "It's hard to explain, okay? Maybe someday I'll tell you."

Feeling a little confused, Jake fell silent. Finally, he asked what was bugging him. "Does it have to do with me?"

Startled, she burst out laughing. "Good God, no." She smiled up at him, and he realized just how pretty she really was. And underneath that, deep down, he could see fear. "It – _ow!_ Holy shit, watch where the hell you're _going_ –" Irene froze, her eyes widening as she realized who'd run into her. "_Ellen!_" she cried, the surprise on her face almost comical.

Ellen was bent over, hurriedly trying to gather up what it was she dropped. Irene crouched down, picking up one of the books. "Math?" Irene asked incredulously. "But you –"

Jake watched on, his confusion growing as Ellen grabbed the book and replaced it in her clutch, hugging it to her not-inconsiderable bosom.

"Really sorry," Ellen apologized, then hurried off in the direction of the Opera House.

Irene gazed after the girl's retreating backside, dumbstruck. "_Math?_" she repeated.

"What's wrong with that?" Jake inquired, mystified.

Irene ignored him, mouthing words but making no noise.

Tentatively he went to put his arm over her shoulder, but she shied away from his touch, fear surfacing for half an instant in her large, hazel eyes. He withdrew it.

"I'm sorry, - I have to go," Irene muttered, looking forward again. Then she returned her eyes to him. "Thank you, though, for the evening." She hesitated, then stood up on her toes and kissed his cheek, quickly turning tail and running in the direction of the Opera House before he could say anything about it, the laces of one sneaker flying as they came undone. Feeling completely baffled by the entire scenario, Jake stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and stared after Irene until she disappeared around a corner.

"Very odd," he said, to no one in particular. He was still standing there when the sky opened up and began to pour.

* * *

Irene, sodden and feeling irritated, closed the big doors behind her and pushed her dripping hair out of her face. Ellen was nowhere to be seen, of course. Irene stood and shivered for a moment, then went up to her room to change into some dry clothes; she had no particular wish to get pneumonia.

She thought about Jake suddenly and a wave of guilt engulfed her. Why the hell had she run off like she had? What with the head start Ellen had had, Irene should've known she'd never catch her. She'd left him standing there in the oncoming rain. She paused before her door, banging her forehead against it a few times. "My life _sucks_," she moaned, banging once more for emphasis. Then she went in, muttering to herself about her stupidity.

"What in the world?" Irene crossed her room and picked up what looked like an ancient piece of parchment, sealed with a red wax skull. She flipped it over. _Irene Saunders_ was emblazoned in fancy dark blue ink. "Strange," she murmured, slitting it open with her finger.

It was styled in the old fashion; no envelope. It was simply the paper folded over to form an envelope.

_Ms. Saunders_ _–_

_If you wish for the boy to keep his life (and yours) then I suggest you keep him out of my Opera House from this point on. The next time he steps past the threshold will be his last step _anywhere_; this is your fair warning._

_With all due respect,_

_O.G._

Irene read and re-read it three times, then grunted and looked out the window-wall in frustration. "This is lovely," she commented. She sincerely hoped he was listening. "You know that? Just lovely." She held up the paper so that, if he was watching, he would see what she was about to do; then she ripped it to pieces, threw the pieces on the floor, spit on them, and then mashed them with her wet sneaker. "Fine!" she shouted. "You want it that way? Fine! I'll do it! God _damn_ you!"

Seething, Irene glared down at the sodden pieces of parchment as if that would solve all her problems.

* * *

Irene studied the newly patched marble in front of the big doors and sighed, shifting the load of streamers in her arms. Her eyes roamed from the floor to the statues, one of which had been repaired and re-attached to the appropriate balcony.

"It's lucky that no one was under that when it fell," Jasper observed, moving past Irene with a bucket of un-inflated balloons.

"Lucky," Irene agreed morosely, moving on to the long dining hall, where there was to be a buffet. "How many streamer rolls needed here?" she asked of Michelle, who was setting down various plants and Halloween-themed decorations.

"I think three of the black and two of the orange, dear," Michelle responded. "Just set them on that glass platter, there, if you will." Irene complied, moving on to the ballroom.

"Where's Ellen?" she asked Jasper, who was sitting in one of the chairs with a marker and a large piece of cardboard. He periodically marked spots on the cardboard, so Irene guessed he was picking where to put up clusters of balloons.

Jasper looked up for a moment. "I think she went to the library." He smiled. "I think she found some boy who works over there, more likely than not."

"Probably so," Irene said, a little too cheerfully. Obviously Ellen's parents knew nothing of their daughter's sudden rash studyings. "How many streamer rolls, do you think?"

Jasper considered the cardboard for a moment, then looked around the room. "I think… how many do you have?"

Irene thought about it a moment, then counted just to be sure. "Eighteen blacks and nineteen oranges."

"Ten of each should be good," he decided. "That leaves eight for the entrance hall." Irene nodded, counted out ten black and ten orange, and left Jasper to his work.

Irene set the streamers in a small pile at the foot of the stairs, and went to find a ladder.

It had been nearly three weeks since going to the movies with Jake, and Irene had mostly kept inside, cleaning and avoiding contact with Jake as much as possible. She saw it as the only way to protect him, although it hurt her to do so. She told herself that she didn't really like him that much, and that it was better this way, but she didn't believe that, not deep down. Irene had made sure she was busy, so that she wouldn't possibly do anything to upset the ghost, and also so that she didn't have to notice so much that Ellen was so out of it.

"My life is fucked up," Irene muttered, toting the clanky metal ladder back to the entrance hall. She set it up against the door and leaned against the doorframe for a moment, pressing her forehead to the cool polished wood. She heaved another sigh and extended the ladder, grabbing a roll of orange and black respectively. Carefully, she pulled the tape from her back pocket and began sticking up the bright, festive streamers.

"How long is this going to go on?" she said. "How long are you going to take this, Irene?

"Probably forever," she replied to herself.

"And why is that, Irene?

"Because I'm such a coward," she grumbled.

Irene, finished with the streamers over the door, climbed down, and folded up the ladder.

* * *

Irene took her ponytail out of her hair, letting it tumble down around her shoulders in a wave. Picking up her brush, she stared at herself in the mirror for a moment before beginning to tame the mess. Once that was done, she slipped into the only dress she owned, a dark purple thing that reached down to her knees. She shrugged on her nice white jacket, straightened the hood, and zipped it up. Then she picked up her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and hurried downstairs.

Ellen and Jasper were already down by the door, presumably waiting for Michelle. Irene joined them, glancing every now and then at the statues, almost daring them to try falling on her this time. They didn't, of course.

Ellen was dressed in a short, jaunty red dress, a pair of red pumps, and a large, fur-lined coat. Jasper had put on one of his better suits, dark grays and blues.

And here Michelle came, severely laden with makeup. She had on about the same kind of dress as Ellen, only in black. Irene guessed wryly that the fashion sense must run in the family.

"Ready to go, dear?" Jasper held an arm out for his wife, who took it primly, and went out the door. Ellen followed, and Irene followed Ellen.

After all the heavy decorating and planning earlier that day, Jasper had decided to celebrate the finish with an expensive dinner trip; he had been gracious enough to invite Irene along. Irene was glad – it was an excuse to get out of the house without running the risk of bumping into Jake.

Irene slid into the car after Ellen, shivering at the feel of the cold leather underneath her dress. Late Autumn and Winter were most definitely NOT her favorite seasons.

She glanced at Ellen, her brow wrinkling. Ellen was sitting with her chin cupped in the palm of one hand, staring out the window at the passing stores and streetlights. Completely zoned. She was that way a lot lately; Irene had no idea why.

Irene looked down at her hands for a moment, then gazed out the window herself, watching the Paris nightlife go by. Was that Jake? Her heart leaped into her throat explosively, and she craned her neck to see back; but no, it was just some kid. She relaxed. "Cool it, Irene," she whispered.

Jasper turned into the parking lot of Le Train Bleu, and Irene's stomach rumbled. She smiled at herself, shaking her head in amusement. She stepped back out into the frosty night air, her breath making little steam clouds as she let it out. "Interesting looking place," she mumbled, hugging herself.

She followed the family, liking the way all of the waiters and waitresses wore the same quaint uniform. The restaurant was very busy that evening, and the chatter was a constant background murmur.

"Do you have a reservation?" a waiter asked, pausing before them.

"Uh – yes. Jasper Jackson?"

"Just a moment, sir," he said, respectfully, then left. A few moments later he was back. "If you will kindly follow me," he continued. He led them to a small table for four back in a corner, and set down four menus. He left again.

Irene picked up hers and glanced through it. Many of the dishes were expensive. "Steak…" she murmured. "Pork, roast, soup…" She frowned. "What I wouldn't give for a good ol' American hotdog."

"Hey, Irene, whatever happened to that boy you were with?" Ellen asked casually, glancing up from the menu she had been studying to give Irene a criticizing look.

Startled, Irene's mouth dropped open. "What?"

"Oh, I get it," Ellen said, snickering. "He dumped you, right? Sorry."

Heart thumping painfully, Irene tried to comprehend where this came from. "What are you talking about?"

"Your boyfriend?" Ellen said sourly. "Whatever his name was."

"Listen here!" Irene said through clenched teeth, trying to keep her temper down. This sudden hit to the weak spot enflamed her. "I've never had a boyfriend, and it's highly doubtful I'll ever HAVE a boyfriend. Got it?"

"Whatever you say, Irene," Ellen said doubtfully. "Still, you shouldn't be ashamed of your first love..."

Irene folded her menu, sat there for a moment, and then stood up, just as a waitress arrived. "I'm sorry," she said, addressing Jasper and the waitress at the same time. "I'm not really hungry. I think I'll just walk home." Before they could reply, Irene pushed her way past the waitress and left.

"What got into her?" Ellen wondered, mystified. Jasper gave her a scandalized look.

Once out in the cold air, Irene paused, rubbing away hot tears. "Stupid Ellen," she snarled, pressing her jacket closer to her body, suddenly wishing for something warmer. It was too late to go back in, though, and make things up. Her breath hitching, Irene strode across the parking lot, and down the sidewalk, her head down to hide the fact that she was crying. The last thing she needed was some stranger's pity.

She was too upset to think about why Ellen had come out of her little world to comment on Jake, or why Ellen had never said anything about Jake before. All she could think of was Ellen's comment itself.

"Oh, I get it. He dumped you, right?" she mimicked, hiccupping slightly. "What the hell does she know, anyway? What does she care if I'm just trying to keep Jake out of harm's way? What does she care if I don't want him dead?" She kicked vehemently at an empty soda bottle on the sidewalk, taking savage pleasure at the way it dented and went skittering down the cement.

She rubbed her face with her sleeve, leaving a dark, wet smear on the white material and looked up finally, surprised to see how close she was to the Opera House now. But man, was it cold out there.

She readjusted her purse, quickening her pace. It was creepy out there in the dark.

"Where do you think you're going, darling?"

Irene whirled, surprised. The dark shape of a man lurked in the alley to her left. "Excuse me?"

"It's rather late for you to be out walking alone, isn't it?" the man continued. He had heavily accented English.

"I manage," Irene replied faintly, turning and preparing to sprint for home.

A hand clenched on her shoulder and spun her back around. "Slow down there, honey!" he chided, smiling. Irene was repulsed at his dirty yellow crooked teeth.

"Leave me alone," she whispered, terrified. "What do you want? Leave me alone!"

"A little cash would be nice." He was so close she could smell his foul breath.

"Take it!" she wheezed, her voice high and pinched. But before she could hand it over, a new voice entered the scene.

"She said, leave her alone." A different hand, somehow stronger, squeezed her shoulder. Irene groaned. She knew that voice.

"I'm so scared of you," the man sneered to the Ghost over her shoulder.

"You should be," the Phantom hissed, and suddenly the man was jerked out of sight. There was a brief struggle, a gurgling noise, and then silence. Irene shuddered.

"Are you – alright?" The Ghost stayed behind her, she noticed.

"I'm f-f-fine," she stammered, brushing off her shoulder, trying to get her trembling under control.

"That is good. Come; we will return to the Opera House."

"I –" Irene yawned suddenly. "God… why am I so tired?"

"Shock," the Phantom replied.

"Oh…" Irene mumbled, slumping back into his arms. Asleep.

* * *

Erik redressed Irene in silence, glad for the fact that he was able to keep her so deeply in sleep. She lolled bonelessly in his arms, like a life-sized doll, her hair falling in her face, and he thought again how easy it would be just to do away with her. She was so far in that he doubted her brain would even be able to register itself dead for several minutes. He straightened the right shoulder strap of her dress, refitted her into her jacket, and spread her out on her bed. More likely than not, she would sleep until the next day, and wouldn't remember falling asleep, but he supposed it was better to leave her in what she had fallen asleep in rather than changing her and risk a scene.

He exited by one of his many secret routes and made his way back to the lair, thinking it over. He had his measurements now, and the materials. He had only to sketch the design and start it. Having nothing better to do (and when you lived underground, away from people, you hardly ever had ANYTHING to do), he would spend most of tomorrow working on it. The party was Friday, two days from then. Plenty of time to work on it.

He paused by the organ and looked around, then whistled softly. The rat, Annemarie, came skittering along, squeaking.

"Good girl," he crooned, picking her up and stroking her fur. "You'll keep me company, won't you?"

He set her down and went about gathering up paper and pencils. Jotting down the measurements he had taken on one corner of the page, he began sketching.

He only paused once, and that was to give the little rat something to eat; once the drawing was finished, he added the measurements were appropriate, and then began the making.

* * *

Irene re-dipped her brush into the black paint pail and made a long, dark stroke, connecting it with another black line for a capital H. She set the black brush down, and picked up the one for orange, swiftly and precisely creating an A. Then she switched back to black.

She went on in this way for some time, silent and measuring, her eyes rather vacant and unfocused. It was Irene's way of hiding what she was thinking of, of hiding her emotions. Inside her mind was a train-wreck of confused thoughts, an insane jumble of unidentifiable emotions. Absently rubbing her nose with paint-smeared fingers (which left a large black streak), Irene finished the rest of the sign with only black, writing out the words 'Jasper Jacksons'' above the 'HALLOWEEN (in smaller letters) COSTUME PARTY' which she had been painting before. Underneath that, she wrote 'Open House – Everyone and Anyone Welcome', and the date, October 31st, 2003, and the time, six o'clock.

"I don't know whether to feel glad or ashamed that I'm being paid to do this," she muttered, pushing the lids back down on the paint cans and getting up. She went to wash her hands and change into some different clothes.

The aforementioned party was being held tomorrow night, and Irene had yet to find a wearable costume. She had just about decided that she would simply throw together some poor excuse for a costume and leave it at that; it wasn't as if she was required to get extravagantly fancy like Ellen was undoubtedly doing. At most, she'd be required to walk around with a tray of drinks.

"Not going to do the pirate, though," she said thoughtfully. "That's for the play next month." She pushed away what followed; _if Ellen stops being so spacey_.

Ellen already had the play entirely written. Granted, it wasn't a Broadway masterpiece, but it was good enough for a fun and fanatical Friday or Saturday night. Irene reminded herself that they had casting tomorrow morning before the party.

She paused inside her bedroom door, and every thought she had been thinking flew out of her head in an instant. She stared at the beautiful dress hung up over her bed, and it almost seemed like the dress stared back at her.

It was a very lacy and extraordinarily tight-looking Victorian-style dress, made up of mostly light blues and whites. She approached it cautiously, reviewing with almost no thought all the different movies she'd seen in which the dress (or the hook holding the dress) was rigged with some kind of bomb. Irene noted the letter pinned to the collar with a lack of surprise. She carefully picked it off, slit the seal, and read what it contained.

_Irene,_

_I am terribly sorry if I seemed so harsh to you before. As I'm sure you know, it is in my nature to be mistrusting. As recompense, I have made a costume for you to wear at the party tomorrow night; as you yourself might say, no hard feelings?_

_With all due respect,_

_O.G._

_P.S.: My rule against the boy still stands. You may think it unreasonable, but I have my reasons._

She sighed and re-folded the note. She quirked one eyebrow at the dress, whom she still had the distinct feeling was watching her. "I suppose… I mean, after all, he did go to all that trouble… and… well… he _did_ apologize… and I'm sure he has his reasons for not liking Jake…" She gazed down at the parchment for a moment, twirling it in her fingers, and finally set it down on her bed. "Yeah, okay. I forgive you," she said, and although she directed it at the costume, she raised her voice slightly. She figured he'd hear.

"S'pose I'll try it on," she murmured, after a moment of consideration. She gently took the dress down from it's hook (not even bothering to wonder at how the hook had just APPEARED there), and pulled it off the hanger, closing her door. She stripped down, then pulled the dress on, turning to examine the back in the mirror. It had a corset sewn in, and then the fabric of the dress was pulled in with strips of more light blue material and tied to cover it. Below the waist it belled out, so that at her feet it was almost a foot away from her knees in a circular shape. Sashes of a darker blue were pinned at periodical spots, making a curving half-circle between peaks.

She looked around the room for a moment, then spotted a pair of gloves that were lying on her makeshift night table. They were the same darker blue as the sashes. She pulled those on too, marveling at how exactly it fit her. "What'd he do, measure me in my sleep?" She giggled at how ridiculous the idea seemed. But, considering he was a ghost, that was completely possible. She stopped laughing and began taking the dress off, taking care to smooth out any wrinkles as she hung it back on its hanger.

She pulled her jeans back on, wiggling a little to do so. She was reminded again of how out of shape she was. If she wanted to be able to keep using the jeans she owned, she'd need to start working out, to be sure.

She tugged her t-shirt over her head, tucking the ends into the waistband of her pants. She put the dress back up on its hook and hurried out of the room to continue with her business. She needed to put the sign outside, then she was supposed to go around handing out flyers.

She picked up the sandwich board, grumbling under her breath about how everything seemed so heavy. She wobbled down the front steps with it, the cold air biting the back of her throat and making her eyes water. She finally got it down, and opened it at an angle, so that it was facing the street and was noticeable. Then she went to find the flyers.

* * *

"I can't believe I took so long uploading this," Shanna complained, swiveling around in her chair, listening to her music aimlessly.

"Aw, don't feel so bad," her boyfriend said, consolingly, patting her on the head like she was a dog. "I'm sure they hate your guts now."

She shot him a glare. "Thanks."

"No problem."

"It's okay," Irene said, smiling. "I'm sure they don't. They're probably glad you finally updated. I know I am."

"Yeh, I suppose," Shanna muttered. She stared at the readers. "You guys enjoyed it, right? RIGHT?!?"

Erik stared sullenly at all the people and said nothing.


	7. Chapter 7

Irene stuck a flier out in front of a passing woman, who snagged it without even really looking at it and stuck it in her purse

Disclaimer: I own NONE OF THIIIIIIIIIIIS. Except the idea.

A/N: Here is the much overdue seventh installment of my story. So much goes on I tend to forget that this thing is still here… speaking of which, I need to get some more wrote!

Lenore Parker: My dear, you really do not help. Sigh.

Rosemasquerader: That is so very, very true. Thanks for your support.

Okamii22: Lol, calm down, calm down… here it is!

Tadaaaaaaaaaa! -Pulls curtain up-

* * *

Irene stuck a flier out in front of a passing woman, who snagged it without even really looking at it and stuck it in her purse. Irene noted rather wryly that it seemed that it was pure reflex for someone to take something if it was shoved under their nose. She became sure of this with the next few vague people who saw but didn't see the flier.

"Oh well," she murmured, taking a pause to count out how many she had left. She still had quite a few. More than half, yet, anyway. Not that many people were going by. There was more activity down the street, at some kind of night club, but Irene didn't quite dare to go down there. She wasn't one to be seen around that kind of shindig.

"If Ellen had been doing this instead of me, these fliers'd be gone in three seconds," Irene grumbled, passing out another. "She'd be right down there partying with everyone else." She sighed impassively and shifted her weight to her left leg.

She thrust another out, not even paying attention to what the person looked like. She shuffled through the fliers absently, froze, and did the most remarkable double-take at the retreating back of Jake.

"_Shit_," she whispered fiercely, hopping up and down on first one leg, and then the other. "What do I do?" she hissed, trying not to panic. "I can't let him take a closer look at it!" She stuck two fingers in her mouth and bit them, thinking furiously. If she was careful about it, she just might be able to snag it back without him noticing. It looked like he was going to the nightclub. Easy distractions. All she had to do was sneak up behind him while he was engaged in some activity, grab the flier and haul-ass out of there before she attracted his attention. Easy peasy.

She thought about it a few seconds longer, then shoved the other fliers in an inside jacket pocket and sprinted after him, keeping a watchful eye on his messy black hair as he disappeared into the crowd.

She was stopped at the door by a very large, very musculature Frenchman. "Can I see some ID?" he growled, his voice harsh and gravelly but still Frenchish in some impossible way.

Irene stared at him incomprehensively, then peered past him to see if she could find Jake. He was making his way towards the bar on the far end. She looked back up at the man after a moment. "Um…?"

"ID?" he repeated, a little more menacingly. "No ID, no access."

Irene fumbled around for her wallet, opened it, and found she had only a library card from their old town that she'd never thrown out, and a medical services card. She quietly closed her wallet and gave the big man a shaky smile. "I don't, erm, suppose you'd let me in on account of my feminine charms…?" she ventured desperately, peering around him again in an attempt to spot Jake.

"No ID, no access," he reiterated firmly.

_This is not good_, she thought. "Even if I say please?" she added, in a tone of lost hopelessness.

She started as an arm slid over her shoulder. "It's okay, Harold," said – no, _purred_ – a male voice slightly above her ear. "I know her friend. She's old enough."

Harold's threatening presence suddenly became about as malevolent as a ball of fluff. "Right you are, Stan," he said, moving aside for them.

Irene, completely bewildered, was led into the inner chambers of the nightclub. She shrugged off her jacket, miraculously not dislodging Stan's arm, and hung it up on the coat hangers just inside the door. Then she craned her neck back to get a look at her mystery rescuer.

She'd never seen him before, that was for sure. But he _had_ said he knew Ellen… at least, that was what she thought she heard him say. At this point, she was ready to say it was the Hunchback of Notre Dame at the door (he was certainly ugly enough) that had barred her entry and this guy could be Harry Houdini for all she knew.

He wasn't much taller than her, but the arm around her shoulder suggested someone who worked out a lot. His biceps pressed against her back and shoulder. He had sandy-blonde hair that hinted at black roots, kept uniformly short except in the front, where he had grown it out enough to brush his eyebrows. He glanced at her with green eyes that glittered mischievously. _Almost as green and lovely as Jake's…_ She felt like smacking herself. _Stop it_, she berated herself mentally. _You don't care about Jake, remember?_ _Right._ He grinned, showing off impossibly perfect teeth. Just looking at them made her feel faint and rather dizzy.

_He's flirting with me_, she thought numbly.

"Th – thank you," she managed, eventually. "I really need to get myself a Paris driver's license…" She trailed off as she noticed how everyone parted that happened to be in their way. What was oddest of all about it was that they didn't even look at them. There was about five feet of space in either direction, forming a little circle around them. It was like the Red Sea parting for Moses, only this particular sea walked and talked and got drunk.

"It was nothing," he said modestly. "Anything for a pretty lady like yourself."

She flushed, embarrassed by the compliment. "Anyway, I, uh… need to find someone. Um… see you later?" she tried, tentatively, not realizing that 'see you later' had to have been the _worst_ farewell she could possibly give.

He nodded, still grinning, and disappeared among the crowd within two seconds. She gaped after him, able to trace his way by the parting people. Of course, once he was gone, she was swamped by chattering party-goers on all sides.

"Ugh," she muttered, squeezing her way past a dancing couple and another couple who had decided that the dance floor was currently the best place to make out. Bouncing up occasionally to make sure she was going in the right direction, she waded her way through the insane crowd to the bar. She was almost there when someone tripped her, grabbed her by the back of her shirt after she landed on the floor, and hauled her upright again.

"Terribly sorry about that," said a voice that sounded British. "Very crowded tonight."

"Yes, it is," she tried to reply, but the booming, thudding intro of a song drowned her out. There was a brief, escalating cheer, and then the dance floor around her erupted into movement. She squeaked in surprise, fighting her way through to the bar, where she got thrown into a bar stool.

She wheezed and slid down to the floor, clutching her stomach, which was throbbing. In an attempt to escape the fast-paced feet, she crawled underneath the bar and huddled up while waiting for a chance to scamper up onto a seat.

She watched the forest of legs with a feeling of unease. How was she supposed to find Jake in _this_ mess? It was impossible!

_Improbable_, argued the voice of Jack Sparrow randomly in her head.

She opened her mouth to argue with herself (or maybe it was Captain Sparrow), when someone sat down at the barstool she was currently behind. She stared at the person (whom she could only see from the waist down) in disbelief. They had one of her fliers sticking out of the pants pocket.

She blinked, finding herself regarding the denim-covered crotch of Jake at very close quarters. She swallowed, and squinched herself back against the bar even further, to avoid touching his legs. "This is bad," she murmured, glad that he couldn't hear her. "This is _wrong_," she added, feeling slight repulsion at the way she couldn't seem to stop _staring_.

She thought about it for a second, then carefully, slowly, began to reach up over his legs, her fingers inching towards the flier in his pocket. The song stopped and she froze, waiting to see what would happen. Jake stayed sitting, and after a few moments a new song began playing. She relaxed a little, although her heart was still pounding in her throat.

"Calm down, Irene," she whispered, taking a deep breath and re-commencing Operation Snag-the-Flier; her fingers had just brushed the orange-ish paper when he moved. She jerked her hand back like it was on fire, smashing herself against the wall and sitting stock-still. _I'm not here, I'm not here, I'm not here,_ she thought incoherently, crossing her fingers that he hadn't figured out she was underneath him.

He partially stood up, yelled something she couldn't really make out, and sat back down. She sighed in relief, but wasn't quite daring enough to make another attempt just yet.

She tried to calm herself down, aware now of the fact that her fingers were tingly with adrenaline. She shuddered, then, after a few moments, tried again. She was only halfway this time when he stood up and moved off the stool, disappearing into the crowd again.

"Damn!" she snarled, crawling out from under the bar.

The person sitting two seats away stood up and tapped her on the shoulder.

She turned, surprised, and groaned. It was Stan. "Care to dance?" he asked, as the song faded off.

She thought about it for a second. Maybe while she was dancing she could scope out Jake. "Yeah, okay," she conceded, letting him lead her out on the floor. As usual, there was almost a five foot space around them and everyone else.

She counted herself lucky. That was, until, 'It's Getting Hot in Here' began playing. Her shoulders slumped. "I don't really like this song!" she tried to tell Stan, but it was too loud, and he was already beginning to move.

He nodded, almost in agreement, as if he knew what she was saying. He then raised one eyebrow at her, as if to say, 'You gonna dance, or what?' She grumbled, did a few experimental steps until she was in-beat with the song, and began to dance.

She twirled, but slowly, trying to see over the multitude of bobbing, bouncing heads, trying so hard to spot the guy she'd for so long been trying to avoid. It wasn't easy. There were so many people with messy black hair…

"What's In sucks," she muttered, twirling again, then bumped into Stan by accident. He bumped her back, grinning wildly. He said something that looked suspiciously like, 'Is THAT how you want to play?' Her eyes widened and she tried to get the message across to him that 'NO, I do NOT want to play that way!', but he wasn't looking at her mouth and he most certainly couldn't hear her. Stan had moved in closer, so close she felt compelled to lean backwards, away from him, to which he responded by leaning forwards, over her, his body making contact. She could feel his abs, and felt impossibly turned on. One arm snaked around her waist and dangled her over the dance floor, his lips coming dangerously close to her own.

_Oh no you don't_, she thought, ducking out from under him, rolling to the side. She thumped heavily to her knees, grunted in surprise and pain, and began crawling frantically through the jungle of dancers on all fours.

Two hands slid under her armpits and jerked her upright. "Lose something?" Stan said in her ear, wrapping his arms around her waist as a slow song started.

"Yes, I lost, um… my ring!" She disentangled herself from him and dropped back down to the floor, pretending to search for a 'ring' while steadily moving away from him. Her scrabbling fingers sent something skittering, and with some amount of surprise she picked up a fancy silver ring. She slipped it on her middle finger and popped back up.

Stan was, oddly enough, nowhere to be seen.

"Thank God," Irene muttered, maneuvering her way back to the bar. She could see Jake sitting with his back to her. She fell back onto her hands and knees again, stealthily creeping up on him. _I feel like a goddamn jungle cat_, she thought, and barely contained an insane giggle. _Stalking… stalking… stalking. Ah! There's the flier. Still in his pocket._ She sat back on her haunches, wiggled her fingers, and gently, tenderly, slipped the orange paper from his pocket. She grinned exuberantly, having triumphed, and crawled back into the crowd, the paper making soft crumpling noises each time she set her right fist down.

She cried out in shock and pain as someone kicked her hand, probably on accident. The paper flew out of her fingers as if using invisible wings, darting around legs before finally disappearing.

"There you are, darling," said Stan, pulling her to her feet. "I see you found your ring."

She stared at him in disbelief and frustration. "How is it you keep popping up everywhere?" She had to grit her teeth to keep from exploding on him. As it was she was clenching her fists. "You're like a… a… a jack-in-the-box!"

He smiled warmly and shook his head. "Darling –"

"– Don't call me that –"

"- I'm _everywhere_," he finished, never missing a beat. It was if she hadn't even interrupted in the first place.

"Great," she muttered sourly. "Well, listen, this has been fun and everything, but I probably should be going –"

"Wait, wait!" Stan grinned. "At least let me buy you a drink before you go."

She threw her hands up in the air in resignation. "Okay! Fine! _Whatever_. _One drink_. That's it!"

"I knew you'd accept," Stan said humbly, draping his arm over her shoulder and leading her to the bar.

She had two seconds to realize her mistake in agreeing to this before Stan plopped her down on the bar stool directly to the right of Jake's.

"What'll it be, miss?" asked the foxy bartender, leaning over the counter and showing off an amazing amount of cleavage.

Irene fumbled with her words, but Stan was the one who spoke up. "Two whiskeys, if you wouldn't mind, Katrina."

"Right you are, Stan," Katrina agreed, going about her business.

Irene hazarded a glance at Jake, who was stirring a drink aimlessly with a toothpick-impaled olive. He looked… well, drunk. Irene wasn't sure if this was good or bad.

Katrina set down the glass in front of Irene, and Irene stared at it distastefully. "I don't like whiskey," she hissed at Stan. "It burns."

He patted her on the back. "We've all got to toughen up sometime. Drink!"

Irene couldn't believe this. "This was _not_ how my evening was supposed to go," she grumbled in an undertone, wincing as the smell of the whiskey hit her nose. She set it back down, and let her nose clear. She'd once heard (or read somewhere) that if you plugged your nose while drinking liquor, you wouldn't get drunk. God knows she got drunk easily enough; she wasn't a drinker by nature. Once her nose was purged of the smell she clamped her thumb and forefinger solidly over her nostrils and downed the whiskey quickly. She became aware of the fact that her throat was stinging something wicked. After a few moments of this, she awakened to the fact that she was feeling a little light headed.

"Maybe you were supposed to put lemon juice in your nose," she said, to no one in particular. It would seem that was the case.

She jumped when there was a tap at her shoulder. She slowly turned her head, and noticed Jake looking at her curiously.

"Ha… ha…" He paused and seemed to consider the fact that he couldn't get whatever 'ha' started with past his tongue and tried a different tactic. "Does I kn-how you?" he slurred.

"No," she said quickly. "Sorry." He was obviously too drunk to even really recognize who she was.

"Oh. Shorry." He picked up his glass and slugged back the last half of it.

"What is that you're drinking?" she inquired, horribly fascinated.

He gave her a criticizing look, which was powerful despite the fact that he only used one eye. The other was scrunched so tightly shut you couldn't even really tell there was another socket there. "Shprite and vo… vo… vo… uh…" he started, apparently deciding she was 'trustworthy', then trailed off, looking like he was deep in thought.

"…Vodka?" she volunteered, at length.

"Yesh!" He looked pleased. She grimaced in disgust. "Egshactly." He squinted at her again. "Ish you shure I dun't know you? You look… fa… fam… family? Nah. Shomething dat shtarts wish eff ay."

"I'm quite sure," she said firmly.

His face fell. "I wash shure…" He shook his head, swiped at his face with a hand, and ordered another drink.

"How about you?" Katrina asked, addressing Irene as she set down Jake's latest glass. "Up for another?"

"No thank you," she said, hurriedly. "I'm going to be leaving shortly." She paused. "How many drinks has he had?" she inquired in a conspirational whisper, jabbing a thumb at Jake, who was humming something incoherently.

Katrina considered. "About eleven." She walked away, leaving Irene gaping.

"_Eleven?_" she repeated, incredulous. _Where the hell did he find all that time to drink that much? He must've really gulped it!_

She watched Jake in silence for a minute or two. He appeared to be humming the Happy Days theme song. His humming would increase in volume, decrease, go on erratic little sidetracks that left her wondering just what it was he was thinking of.

She poked his shoulder at last. He looked at her. "What are you drinking so much for?"

He thought about it. Seemed ready to answer, then closed his mouth. Opened it again. "'M not really shure," he answered, finally. "I fink it… wash… uhhh…" He scratched his scalp, ruffling his jet black hair. "Girl problemsh?" he ventured. She gulped. "No, wai…wait." He underwent more serious thought. "Does I have a girlfr'end?"

"I wouldn't know," she said helplessly.

"Right, right," he continued, shrugging, rolling his head from side to side, and flapping a hand at the same time. "I dun't." He took a swig from the glass. He stared down at the crazy mix-drink, then glanced up at her rather decisively. "Would you like ter… ter… uh…" He wrinkled his nose and smacked himself lightly on the left temple. "…Donkey?" he tried, then shook his head. "Nah. Not donkey. D… uh… da… um… dangle? Nah. Danger? Dance!" he concluded gleefully. "Dass it! Dance!"

"No, I really couldn't –" She began to stand up. His face crumpled.

Stan, quiet until now, leaned over and gave Irene a smack on the rump. She squealed and jumped. "Go on! Have a dance! It won't kill ya!"

Jake immediately brightened and he leapt off his stool with insane vigor. "Ladiesh firsht," he offered, bending at the waist and throwing his arms out in a haphazard way.

"I'm going to kill you," she hissed at Stan, forcing a sharky grin before dutifully marching out onto the dance floor. Jake followed.

"Now," Jake began, with a very pronounced slur, "thish ish a shlow shong. That meansh we dansh like sho –" He took her arms and placed them around his neck, and placed his arms around her waist, settling them against the gentle swell of her hips; in spite of herself, she found it amusing, "- and shlowly shpin in gentle clockwishe circlesh." He suited actions to words by beginning to spin in a circle.

"That's counter-clockwishe – _wise_," she said, beginning to correct him and ending up correcting herself. Good grief. His way of talking when he was drunk was catchy.

"I knew dat," he said defensively, reversing his circles.

"I knew you knew that," Irene agreed with perfect solemnity.

"And I knew you knew I knew dat," he continued.

"But I also knew you knew I knew you knew I knew that," she countered.

He gave her a blank look of confusion. "My hed hurtsh," he said.

She smiled and shook her head. "Just forget it."

"Kay," he agreed, readily enough. She snorted and laid her head against his shoulder, beginning to relax a little. If she knew anything about drunk people (and Ellen had been drunk at enough parties for her to know _something_ about it), generally someone who'd drank heavily hardly remembered anything past the time they got drunk. But some people did. She sighed. She'd just have to wait and see and pray to God that he was a typical drunk case.

She was mildly surprised when he buried his face in her hair. Most of it had fallen out of her ponytail in the earlier excitement.

"You shmell good," he informed her with absolute gravity.

"Is that so?" He nodded. "Thank you." He nodded again.

She was startled to find how easy it was to dance that close with him. She could feel his upper torso pressed against her own, feel the muscles that were there. He had to work out. The muscles were too solid to just _be_ there; she vaguely wondered why he hid them underneath baggy shirts and jackets. She was even more startled to find how much she liked the feel. There was something wholesomely appealing about it.

The song ended and they stopped turning in circles, but Jake remained with his arms on her hips for a moment, just looking at her.

"Hash anyone ever told you how purty you are?" he commented.

She started. "…Well, I… Um… You would be the first," she mumbled.

He cocked his head. "People can't shee dat, obvioushly dey're purty sht… sht…" His face turned red slightly as he fought with the word. "…_shtoopid_," he finished.

"You're very kind," she said, earnestly. She meant it.

He grinned, and she had a hard time attempting not to swoon. That grin, almost childish, light up his whole face and gave him a damn near irresistible cuteness.

"But I really must go now," she added. "I have to get home."

He sighed. "If you musht." He perked up. "I'll drive you!" He made a show of digging in his pockets, presumably for his car keys.

She hurriedly placed a hand on his questing arm. "I'll walk. It's not far. You're in no condition to be driving, anyway. Do you have someone to drive you home?"

"I'll do it," offered a silky-smooth voice from just behind her that she had come to recognize and loathe the past hour or so. "It's on my way."

"You know him?" she asked, surprised.

"He lives in my neighborhood," Stan said in an off-hand way. "It's no problem."

"Well –" She glanced at Jake, who was still digging for his keys. "I suppose. Thank you."

Stan nodded amiably, patting Jake on the shoulder. Irene sighed in relative relief, making her way over to the coat racks. She was too tired to even notice that the pockets were considerably lighter.

* * *

Irene stepped inside the Opera House, closing the embellished doors with a resounding click. She leaned her forehead against the cool metal and wood, closing her eyes and for the moment ignored the oncoming headache and the knot in her stomach.

At length, she pulled away from the door and made a bee-line for her room, muttering under her breath. Mostly it was comments on how fucked-up her life seemed right then. Mainly, she would think later, it was simply a poor-goddamn-me attitude. Whiny, in other words.

She fumbled with the key to her door. Lately she had taken to locking it when she went out; she entertained the notion that if she locked it, Erik (she had now begun thinking about him on a first-name basis) wouldn't be able to get in.

"Been out having a good time?" the Phantom inquired virtuously in her ear.

She squealed a little, and before he had time to catch her she spun around. She backed up against the door.

Well, he was certainly a lot more solid and real-looking than she had expected. Certainly no vapors drifting off his person, like in the horror movies. And he wasn't all shriveled and shrunken like a zombie. In fact, he was quite handsome, at least by her perspective. The mask hindered things, a little, but she figured that that was a minor problem.

"You smell like alchohol," he said flatly, after allowing her a few moments to gawk and a few moments for himself to decide she wasn't going to throw a screaming fit. Because, after all, he _was_ the Phantom of the Opera.

"I – I –"

"You're not drunk, are you?" He knew she wasn't, but he felt like making her stammer more. It gave him a feeling of superiority.

"Of c-course not!" she said indignantly. "I don't get drunk on only one d-drink!"

He raised his good eyebrow but said nothing.

"And in any case," she continued, being careful to review all of her words in her head before letting them leave her tongue, "I was simply passing out fliers." She caught his blank look and quickly scrabbled for an explanation. "You know, for the party tomorrow night." His face cleared. "Um, th-thank you for the dress. It's lovely," she added.

"I heard you come in and thought I would check up on you and make sure you understood my… requests." He didn't outright call them 'demands'. That would lead him nowhere.

"Qu – quite clear," she responded, straightening a little self-consciously and clearing her throat.

He nodded and, without further word, strode down the hall and out of sight.

She sighed shakily and entered her room, getting prepared for bed.

Meantime, Erik was quickly and efficiently making his way down to the basement area and to his lair. He noted Satan sitting at his piano.

"How are things down in your little secluded area?" Satan asked, with about as much innocence as the Prince of Darkness could manage.

"Fine," Erik replied with a guarded expression. "To what do I owe this… pleasant… unexpected company?"

"I just thought I'd drop in and check up on you," the devil answered cheerfully. "I _do_ do that from time to time."

"Yes, well…" Erik coughed and picked up Annemarie, who was currently demanding his attention. "The girl – Ellen – is quite a fast reader once you set aside and put out of range all the other petty things she does during the day. Quite the study." He shifted the rat from hand to hand, letting her run around and make a show of it.

"Well, I just thought I'd let you know that the other girl, Irene, is _quite_ the dancer," Satan said smugly.

Erik stared at him for a few moments. "…Dan…dancer?"

"She has a wonderful body," he sighed. "Too bad she's already caught up in a love affair or I'd take her on one myself. I might still do that anyway."

Erik started at the mention of the boy. "Any news on what's up with him?" He shook his head slightly to clear it. He had the feeling he was beginning to be around Ellen too much. He was using her phrases.

"Other than he's hopelessly obsessed with Irene? Nope. I think the _most_ activity he had was earlier tonight. Insufferably drunk." He smiled, almost fondly, remembering the entire scene. "In any case," he continued, standing up, still in the guise of the one called Stan, "you shouldn't have much of a problem from either of them. Because I have a plan."

Erik snorted. "What? You're helping me?"

"Why not?" Satan asked, feigning hurt. "You _are_ family." He motioned Erik closer, which Erik found needlessly annoying as no one was going to hear what the devil was about to say, but he moved forward anyway. "Now, I took extra measures and…" And Satan told him all about his devious little scheme.

* * *

"It seems to me," Shanna grouched, staring at the chapter, "that this is an insufferably long chapter. Excruciatingly long."

"I'm sure the fans will enjoy it," Irene said, doubtfully.

"You got me DRUNK?!" Jake screeched, somewhere in the backround.

"She did," Shanna and Irene immediately responded, pointing to one another.

"Can we be done with this?" Erik grumbled from his corner.

"Don't make me call Tammy and the shocky spork."


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: The only people I own are the ones not aforementioned in Tammy's story, and I certainly don't own Erik... which I think he's probably glad for lol.

A/N: Oohhhhhhh, my god... lol... it's been over a year since the last chapter... shall we see if my readers are still on board my boat? =P

Timeflies: Isn't Satan always up to no good? Lol!

Lenore Parker: I'm soooooo sorry that this took so long! Thanks to my supportive boyfriend I'm now determined to finish this story. =D

Enjoy!

* * *

Irene rubbed her forehead with two fingers and shifted her position in one of the Opera House's theater-style chairs, sneaking a glance at Ellen while she pretended to riffle through papers attached to a clipboard. Ellen sat quietly, watching the stage. To the right, a line had been formed of potential stage actors.

Most of these were amateurs, just starting out in acting, and had figured that since there was going to be a play (somewhat musical, no less) at the Opera House, they might as well attend. Who knew? They might get a lucky break there. A few among them were better known to the stage, but not yet famous. They, too, were hoping for a lucky break. There was a quiet murmuring rising from them.

"Alright everyone," Irene said loudly, standing up for the moment and looking down at her clipboard. The chatter quieted. "I'd just like to welcome you to the Paris Opera House and thank you for coming to the auditions today…"

There was a faint smattering of thank-you's and you're-welcome's.

Irene cleared her throat. "What I'd like each of you to do is, when you go on stage, to state the name of the character you want to portray and read a selection of that character's lines from the script, which you all have a copy of, yes?"

There was a rustling of paper as people showed her their copies of the play.

"Good, good." She sighed slightly, gave her list of people a glance, and sat back down. "Let's start, shall we? When you're done," she added, quickly, "you can either take a seat and watch the rest of the auditions or you can go." She figured most would stay and watch the competition.

A shaky, gangly girl who looked to be twenty-five climbed onstage. "Hi, my name is Brandy, and I'd like to play Susan, Lady Fayne's first mate…" She shuffled nervously through the script, apparently found her spot, and began to read.

Irene listened, nodding occasionally, glad for the privacy of her own mind to think the things that went through it. Mostly it went in the way of thinking, "This girl won't work for Susan… she's too meek. Possibly she might go for one of the deckhands…" Next to Brandy's name on her sheet, she checked 'Check for other possible roles to play', which was in the middle, squished between 'Yes for Role Asked' and 'Definitely Not'.

Brandy finished, looking apprehensive. "Thank you," Irene called up. "We'll let you know, alright?" Brandy nodded, not sure if that meant she was terrible or if that meant they actually _were_ giving her a chance, and left the stage by the second set of stairs down. When Irene didn't hear the doors open and close, she assumed Brandy sat down. "Next?"

"My name is Charlie," said the boy smoothly, "and I'd like to play the part of Navy Captain Ferrier." Irene was impressed. He was obviously a veteran to the stage. He had that clear, fluid way of speaking that was excellent for acting work; he was also good-looking, and the perfect portrayal of Roderick Ferrier. He said the lines flawlessly, with amazing conviction and just the right gestures. He also sang part of a song that was a duet between Ellen's character and Ferrier.

Irene looked at Ellen, who still sat quite passively, not making comment or even really acknowledging there was someone on the stage. Irene sighed in frustration and glanced up at Charlie, who was watching her. He didn't look the least bit nervous.

Irene thought about it, then ticked 'Yes for Role Asked'. If someone came along that was better, she could just erase the mark. But Charlie looked good to her. "Thanks," Irene said. Charlie nodded and smiled, then trotted offstage.

"This is going to be a long day," Irene murmured to herself.

* * *

Irene threw the clipboard, the pages rattling unnecessarily as it hit her bed. Said pages were filled to the margin lines with side-notes, doodles, and comments on people/performances. She paused by the window, parting the curtain and looking down onto the stage area.

Ellen was gone now, of course. Irene had considered herself quite lucky to get Ellen to come _at all;_ Ellen had protested strongly against it. Claimed she had 'places to go, places to be, things to do and things to read'. As if she'd been studying _poetry_. But at last Irene had managed to convince her to come. But as soon as Irene had declared the session over and that everyone could go ("But don't forget the party tonight"), she vanished.

"Gotta get ready," Irene muttered, taking her hair out of its customary ponytail and shaking it out. She brushed it out, then gathered up her curling iron, hair clips and bobby pins, and various bits of make-up she planned on using. "Don't know why I have to get so elaborate," she said, to no one in particular. "S'not like I need to impress anyone. And Jake's not even going to be there." She paused. "Thank God for small favors."

She sighed, pulled her dress down from the hook, and went off in search of a bathroom that wasn't being used.

The first one, when she knocked, turned out to contain Michelle. Naturally, it was the biggest of the bathrooms in the Opera House, but Irene wasn't about to complain. She didn't really need all that space anyway.

She moved on to the next, and when nobody answered to her knock, she entered. It was considerably smaller than the one Michelle had taken up residence in, but it also suited Irene's needs. It contained a larger-than-average bathtub, which was large enough to fit about five people (whereas the big one fit about fifteen), three sinks with gold-embellished taps, and a large closet that Michelle had stocked with large, fluffy white towels.

Irene hung the dress on the back of the door, set her assortment of things on the counter, and plugged her curling iron in. Then she stripped down, pulled a towel out of the closet, and ran the water in the bathtub. To busy herself and keep her mind off things, she went about arranging shampoos, conditioners, and body soaps around the rim of the tub. It worked, to an extent. Finally she turned the tap off and lowered herself into the water, sighing.

"Good thing I'm not staying in here for long," she said, to herself. "Otherwise I'd be thinking every goddamn little detail over and I'd be in more despair than I am now." She began to get her hair wet so she could wash it. "As it is I'm going to go prematurely grey from this experience…"

Once she was done with all the necessities that come with getting clean she pulled the plug out of the drain and toweled herself off. She pulled on her underclothes and then began to attempt to figure out how to put the dress on by herself. Eventually she decided there was no complicated laces to do and no corset to work herself into and simply stepped into it, pulling the ribbons that served as shoulder-straps up over her shoulders. She turned in a most frustrating manner to try and lace-up the back. At length she managed to do it right without any odd-looking twists and began to curl her hair methodically, doing the bottoms of most of it. She pulled back what she had curled and pinned it with a barette, then began curling entire, thin lengths of hair so that they formed tight ringlets. Then she used the bobby-pins and smaller clips to stick them in place.

"Well," she said critically, looking herself over in the mirror, "at least you'll look somewhat better than usual." She picked up the lipstick and sighed. "I hate putting on makeup." _You hate it but you put it on anyway_, she added, silently. She pulled the cap off the tube and began applying it to her lips, being careful not to let it veer off her lipline. She knew it was just going to come off in bits and pieces over the course of the night as she drank and ate, but what the hell, she'd go for the Gold, so to speak.

At last she considered herself done, and gathered up all her things, heading back to her room. "Now, I'm just going to greet people at the door, and probably serve stuff later." She paused. "Fun."

She hurried back down the stairs, knowing that at any minute people were going to start showing up. She passed Jasper on the way, who looked quite different in his prison attendee outfit. She smiled, nervously.

"Oh, Irene," he said, turning, as she was coming down to the bottom of the stairs.

"Yes, sir?" she asked, surprised, looking up.

"I like your dress."

"Oh. Um. Thank you, sir."

He smiled and continued on his way.

Irene paused at the doors, thinking for half an irrational second that when she opened them Jake would be standing there like a knight in shining armor to sweep her off her feet, then she brushed it aside impatiently and opened the doors.

Well, there _was_ someone standing there. Two someones.

Irene stared. They stared back.

"Hello," Irene hazarded, at length.

One was dressed in a very elaborate, very fancy blue dragon costume. There was a horned headband on her head and a tail was curled in an interesting pose behind her back. The wings, almost taller than the girl herself, were folded primly. Blue glasses, almost the same color as her suit, sat on the very end of her nose. The other was dressed in a red Victorian style dress, with a bun pinned in her hair and black-framed glasses. The hint of fangs poked out from under her top lip.

The Dragon Lady spoke. "Hullo." She looked past Irene.

"We're early, aren't we?" the Vampire asked.

Irene blinked. "Um… well… kinda?"

"See?" the Vampire demanded of the Dragon. "I told you we'd be early, but _noooo_…"

"Well, how was I supposed to know?" the Dragon retorted huffily.

"It's not like, Oh, it's ten o'clock over here, it MUST be ten o'clock over there. There's the whole time zone to think of."

"I didn't know!" the Dragon snapped. "When you switch realities it's hard to calculate what time you're switching to!"

"Don't make me use the Shocky Spork," the Vampire growled.

The Dragon fell immediately quiet, her eyes growing large at the mention of the… the whatever.

"Sorry about that," the Vampire said, addressing Irene, smiling widely enough that Irene could see all of her fangs. "We had a little mix up, that's all. But we're not too early?"

"Oh, no," Irene said, feeling more confused then enlightened. "I was just going to open the doors to the public…"

"Good, good," the Vampire said cheerfully.

Irene looked at the Dragon, who just shrugged. When she did, the wings unfolded themselves slightly to the motion of her arms.

"Well," she said, cautiously, "come on in… um… the ballroom is down that hall there, fourth door on your… uh… right."

"Danke," the Dragon said, and they both were off, once again arguing about the problems of switching time zones.

"This is going to be a strange day," Irene said, not even beginning to realize she'd spelled it out perfectly.

About half an hour later, as the sun was moving towards the west in an attempt to set, people began to arrive in small crowds. Once she'd ascertained that people knew where they were supposed to go and that the people coming in afterwards could just follow the stream, she mingled with the guests moving towards the ballroom.

"_Love_ the dress," purred an all-too-familiar voice from right in front of her. Irene collided with a well-muscled upper torso and squealed a little, hindered from her attempt to jump back by a strong arm around her waist.

"Hello, Stan," she said morosely, looking up at him. He looked back down. Or rather, down the front of her dress, which she felt with a sudden rash of embarrassment was cut too low.

"You look absolutely stunning today, my dear," he said, grinning. He was wearing red plush devil horns on a headband (not unlike those of the Dragon), a brown leather jacket and an open-necked work-shirt underneath. His jeans were decorated with flames on the cuffs and little Satanistic stick figures.

_How fitting_, Irene thought. "Um… well… thanks. I guess." She slipped out of his grasp. "You look nice."

He nodded cheerfully and moved off through the crowd, giving the distinct impression of one with other fish to fry. She sighed in relief and turned around, nearly running into the Vampire and the Dragon again.

The Dragon, in the act of heading towards one of the tables, paused. Then she smiled. "Oh. Hello again."

"…H – Hi," Irene stammered. "Um – are you enjoying the, erm, party?"

"Oh, yes," said the Vampire pleasantly. "In fact, I was just commenting to Dee on how lovely the decorations are."

The Dragon (who was, apparently, called Dee) nodded. "I love the cats," she said, pointing out one of the black cats that was perched on the table, flicking its tail as it watched the crowd of partygoers.

Irene stared at the cat in perplexity. "I've never –"

"Ah!" Dee said, stretching out her left arm suddenly; she'd apparently spotted something of interest. In correspondence, her left wing stretched out and whacked someone.

"_Hey!"_ the girl yelped, her halo knocked askew. "Watch where you're moving those damn wings, will ya?"

"You better watch where the hell you're walking!" Dee retorted just as loudly and just as hotly, forgetting all about her point of interest in an instant.

"Oh yeah?" she screeched, not at all as angelic as her costume suggested. "You wanna make something of it, dragon bitch?"

Dee attempted to leap on the girl, but the Vampire grabbed her around the waist (getting hit in the face several times by Dee's wings, which folded and stretched constantly).

"Lemme go, Tammy!" she shrieked, twisting and clawing at the air. "Lemme at 'er!"

Irene stared, and then quickly shuffled away into the crowd, not at all wanting a part of the ensuing catfight.

The next time she bumped into someone she was prepared. Irene turned around, apologies on the tip of her tongue, and then they died there. They completely shriveled up, and went poof.

It was Erik. She knew that much, even though he didn't look so much like Erik anymore, as he had a different kind of mask on and a costume. The mask in question was blue, peacock-blue, in fact, although not so bright as to hurt the eyes when you looked at it. It was fringed with the tips of peacock feathers. The suit itself was a mixture of greens and blues, sometimes dyed in ways as to merge the two colors together.

"Hello," she managed, faintly.

"Good evening," he said, pleasantly enough. Which, for Erik, was about two steps above curt.

"Yeah, um… Thanks again… Er… for the dress. You know."

"You're quite welcome," he said, watching her with an unreadable expression.

"…Uh… well… yeah." She coughed. "Anyway. I'll just – be going. Lots to… do. And all that," she added, gesturing vaguely.

"I know you are quite busy," he said – and was that a hint of amusement Irene heard in his voice? – and he disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

Everything was going fine. Irene was actually beginning to relax, not having seen any sign of Stan, Erik, or Tammy and Dee – who seemed to weird her out as much as the first two did – and was enjoying herself, for what seemed like the first time in eons.

That was, until she spotted a certain, familiar head of messy black hair.

"Jake can't be here," she whispered to herself, averting her eyes and staring down at the table. "I imagined it. I'll look up, and he won't be there." Suiting actions to words she looked back up. A low moan escaped her throat.

He was still there.

She pushed back her chair so quickly that it toppled over backwards. Her dress, caught in the legs of the chair, hindered her, and she _also_ toppled backwards, with a little squeal. She crashed to the floor in a heap, staring off into the jungle of legs upside-down. Her head spun.

But unfortunately her head wasn't scrambled enough to not recognize Jake's voice.

"Oh, man, Irene… that was a nasty spill… let me help you up." He leaned over her and expertly untwisted the hem of her dress from the chair legs. Then he bent and pulled her up by her waist, in an obvious attempt to avoid ripping her dress. He started to dust her off, then stopped, feeling self-conscious. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, fuzzily. She blinked at him. "I don't suppose you'd mind staying in focus, please?" He kept moving in and out of ranges of blurriness, but what she could gather of it he was dressed like a punk-rocker; torn shirt, messy hair (it looked gelled), guitar strapped to his back, and chains hanging from multi-zippered jeans. He looked irresistibly cute.

"You sound real fine to me," he said, laughing a little. He set her chair back up and gestured for her to sit down. She started to, then bounced back up.

"No!"

"What?" he asked, confused.

"You can't stay," she said, firmly, her head cleared in one sharp instant.

"I can't?" His tone was completely bewildered, and she felt a pang of guilt.

"Absolutely not."

"And why not?" he demanded.

"I – because."

"That's not a reason," he said, irritably.

"Of course it's a reason," she snapped, losing her patience. "Look, I can't explain. It's too… _difficult_. To explain. You see?"

"I think I might," he sighed. "It… you don't like me, do you?"

Her stomach wrenched. "I never said that."

"So you _do_ like me?" he asked, slyly.

"I didn't say that either!" she said, miserably.

"So you don't."

"Will you stop that?" she said, exasperated. "Really. You're a great guy, Jake –" he looked about to say something, but she plunged on, "- and a great friend, but that's really not the point I'm trying to convey. It's… it's not good for you to be here."

Her use of the word friend stung him. He nodded, slowly. "Alright, Irene. I get it, I think."

She sighed inwardly with relief. Finally!

"But I have one request to make," he continued.

"Anything," she said, quickly, not stopping to think it over.

"I want one dance with you."

She felt her heart stop. It skipped three beats, and then jackrabbited wildly. "What?"

"I want to dance," he repeated simply. "You did say anything."

She felt like smacking herself. Hell, she felt like mentally screaming at herself. But she didn't do either (although her mind would have something to say about it later). Instead she grudgingly nodded.

His face lit up happily. "Shall we dance?" he asked, gallantly, holding out a hand. Under other circumstances she would've found it funny, or even charming, but tonight it was only an added annoyance.

She took his hand and allowed herself to be pulled out to the dance floor.

She was prepared for the worst. What came out was even worse than that.

_So she said What's the problem baby…_

Irene, resigned, began to dance.

_What's the problem I don't know, well,_

_Maybe I'm in love – love – _

_Think about it everytime I think about it_

_Can't stop thinkin' bout it_

This had to be the worst possible song she could dance to with Jake. Besides the fact that the song echoed her feelings precisely, she had no idea how long it would take Erik to figure out Jake was in the building. And until she knew, it was going to drive her bananas. She prayed Erik wouldn't find out at least until after he was gone, when she could plead ignorance.

She twirled as the song instructed, helpless to feel herself getting into the beat. Jake was enjoying himself; that much was evident.

As the song progressed, her fear and paranoia increased. Any second now Erik was just going to show up out of the crowd, stab Jake and leave him to bleed on the floor, and then probably stab her as well.

The song slowed. She and Jake were only inches apart now, but to her it might as well have been centimeters.

_Accidentally in love…_

_Accidentally in lo-o-o-ove…_

_Accidentally in love…_

Irene couldn't take her eyes off Jake's. She felt spellbound. His arms slid around her waist, slowly, and she didn't protest. Felt as if she couldn't.

_Maybe this is what they mean by paralysis_, she thought, numbly. Her body was pressed against his now; it felt the way it felt the night before in the club and it made her stomach flutter. And in the backround, the stupid singer kept repeating the phrase. It seemed to go on and on.

His face drew nearer. She wanted to tell him to stop, don't, you can't, I can't, but the words wouldn't get past her throat.

He was close enough now his hair tickled her forehead. And suddenly she forgot all about Erik, about Stan and his advances, about everything. Even the music was gone. She also forgot to breathe. All she could see were his eyes.

The trance was broken in half an instant by a scream. She jerked, instinctively, which snapped Jake out of it. He pushed her, out of reflex, and she tumbled away into the crowd, which parted as she came down heavily. Her head hit the floor for the second time that night and she heard a bone-shattering crunch. For a moment she thought it was her head and she panicked, sitting up so fast her head whirled.

Then a male voice screamed; it was pain, not fear. She scrambled to her feet, fearing the worst. She pushed through the people, who had already moved back around her and formed a wall between her and Jake. "Let me through!" she shouted, shoving.

"I don't think you want to see," Stan said, suddenly right in front of her, blocking her path.

Her heart went cold. "Let me through," she said, softly. Icily.

"If you insist," he said, shrugging. He moved aside.

Jake lay on the floor, his face twisted in pain. A heavy object had fallen from the ceiling above and broken his leg. Blood puddles were rapidly growing. For a moment Irene's mind didn't want to recognize the object, but then it became clear. It was a sandbag. A damn sandbag. Irene dropped to her knees, heedless of the way the dress was rapidly turning pinkish-red, and strained against it, finally rolling it off. Jake hissed in a high-pitched way, obviously trying not to scream again.

Irene felt her stomach lurch at the sight of his leg and quickly looked away, towards his face. Then she forced herself to look back.

"Does anyone have a cellphone?" she yelled, looking around and behind her.

In approximately two seconds half a million phones were held out.

"For God's sake, somebody call 911!" she screamed, losing her temper instantly. "All those phones and you'd think someone would have the brains to call an ambulance!"

"Irene…"

Irene's head whipped back to Jake.

"It's okay, Irene," he said, through gritted teeth.

"Like hell it's okay," she said, her voice wavering. Tears stood out in her eyes. "Like hell it is. You're going to bleed to death if someone doesn't call an ambulance!" she shouted, glaring around at people.

Several people were already on the phone by that time, but she didn't care. She savagely wiped the tears away, turning back to him. "They're calling an ambulance," she reassured him needlessly, talking more to herself than to him. "It'll come soon and then you'll be okay."

She sat in silence for a few moments, listening to his irregular breathing, seeming calm, and then she buried her head in her hands and started to cry.

A few minutes later an ambulance arrived. As the paramedics lifted Jake onto a stretcher, Irene stood up, the bottom half of her dress a dark red.

Stan approached her. "Listen, Irene. I'm really sorry about your friend there." He coughed. "I thought, y'know, you might, ah, need some cheering up…"

She turned and stared at him in disbelief. "Cheering up?"

"That's right," he agreed.

"_Cheering up_, you say?"

"Naturally," he said, starting to look a little tense.

"I don't need any _cheering up_," she said, tartly, her top lip pulling back from her teeth in a shark grin. "What I need is for you to get the hell out of my face!" She pulled back her right arm, made a fist, and slugged him solidly across the jaw. He went teetering away, looking more than just a little surprised.

She glared around at the astounded mass and then followed the paramedics.


End file.
